


The Scent of You: Part I

by rummy_cat



Series: The Scent of You [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sandor Clegane, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attraction, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Knotting, Lust at First Sight, Masturbation, Mating Bond, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Sansa Stark, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tywin Lannister, Part of series but can stand alone, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: Sansa Stark, a prized omega, travels to King's Landing to wed Prince Joffrey, but another catches her eye (or rather, her nose).Ned does NOT go south to become Hand. This fic will be Sansa- and Sandor-centric and light on politics. Pretty much an excuse to write carnal longing and fulfilment for SanSan.This will be a multi-part series but each work will be written with a conclusion so that you won't need to read the next work(s) unless you want to.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: The Scent of You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066916
Comments: 75
Kudos: 240





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my version of Westeros, humans have evolved away from the traditional A/B/O gender dynamics, making alphas, betas, and omegas rare and coveted. The majority of the population at this point in time are “nons” – meaning they’re “normal” humans that never presented as A, B, or O. (I could have made betas = nons but decided against it to avoid confusion with other fics that have something unique about betas, such as their heat cycle.)
> 
> I’ve never written an A/B/O fic and haven’t taken the time to learn all the rules and nuances, so I apologize in advance if I’m breaking any rules.

**Sansa**

Nothing about this was fair. She came to King’s Landing to marry the prince, but she couldn’t even stand the sight of him, or worse – the smell of him. Everyone said he was an alpha, but Sansa and Jon knew he wasn’t. Mother and father didn’t understand. Their siblings didn’t understand. It was said that he was an alpha born of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister – a rare alpha-alpha couple. And to state or even _imply_ that their eldest son and heir Joffrey wasn’t an alpha was an act of treason.

Sansa had always had an exceptional sense of smell as a child, and since she was two and ten she could determine a person’s role just by their scent.

Since she blossomed at three and ten, she couldn’t stand the scent of male betas. It literally nauseated her at times. Her father was only tolerable because she had grown up with his scent.

Maester Luwin had said the power of scent she described was an ancient ability, common in the First Men, but that had weakened over the generations as people became more human and less animal. It was rare to have such a strong sense of smell. Among her family she and Jon both possessed it, which was even more rare.

And because the others couldn’t relate to their capabilities, they didn’t believe them. Father and mother thought she lied about Joffrey’s scent to try to get out of the betrothal because she didn’t find him handsome enough. In fact, he was quite handsome, but he was too skinny, too slight. He was a year older than Sansa but she was an inch taller than him. And he stunk.

Her parents might have declined the betrothal anyway, as they had no love for the Lannisters, but King Robert was insistent that his son be matched with a kind, beautiful omega from a great house. Sansa was all of these things which made her quite rare. With each passing generation fewer children presented as alpha, beta, or omega. Old families like the Starks were more likely to produce children with one of the three roles, but even so only she and Jon presented – she as an omega, Jon as an alpha.

It had caused such a scandal within her family. Jon was only her bastard half-brother and as such had no rights of inheritance under the new laws. But tradition dictated that an alpha male offspring would be an heir over a beta, omega, or non. Of course, her mother resented the fact that soon Jon would take over the Stark household and eventually be named Warden of the North upon father’s passing. Mother also feared what Jon would do to Sansa and forced Sansa to be locked away and guarded whenever she went into heat.

Despite the trouble it caused in her family, Sansa had always been proud of her position. In Westeros, omegas were rare and valued for their fertility and docile natures. Female omegas were the preferred choice of wife for the lords of noble houses. Sansa had always looked forward to being matched with a strong alpha who would love and protect her. In return she’d give him strong children with an ancient, respected bloodline.

But after the royal family’s visit, Sansa wanted to be anything but an omega. She’d even settle for being a non; surely that would be preferable to having to marry Joffrey Baratheon and his horrible stench.

Sure, the prince carried himself like an alpha, but Sansa saw it was only an act. She watched Ser Rodrik’s face as Joffrey strutted by. The old knight, a highly esteemed alpha in his day, rolled his eyes, and Sansa struggled to contain her smirk.

Even Jon, who was relatively tame for an alpha male, looked like he wanted to tear Joffrey apart with his bare hands. It would be regicide, but Sansa would love to see it. Perhaps if Jon could kill Joffrey and get away with it, saving Sansa the shame of marrying him, she’d reward Jon with her maiden’s gift. They were only half-siblings, after all, and Jon was growing into quite an impressive man. He had the northern look Sansa found so desirable – black hair, gray eyes, muscular build. Though his humble upbringing always dueled with his alpha nature, each day he became more self-assured. When Sansa heard Robb and Theon whisper about how Jon had lost his virginity to a whore in Wintertown she was so angry she didn’t speak to Jon for over a sennight.

It wasn’t his fault though, truly. When Sansa was in heat, she craved Jon to the point of pain, but any other time she saw him only as a brother. She could then recognize her attraction to him was the result of having few alphas around that could slake her needs. Maester Luwin explained to her that she was a highborn lady and shouldn’t settle for just any alpha male… she should seek out a _true mate_ – a man she would love and be attracted to not just when she was in heat.

When she asked how she’d know when she met this man, the old maester smiled, “You’ll know him when you smell him.” Maester Luwin believed her when she spoke about her odd power of scent. He said she had the nose of a wolf, and that it would always steer her the right direction.

Unfortunately, her nose was steering her away from Joffrey Baratheon, the man she was now betrothed to. The man who would be king even though he smelled rancid and weak. Even fat King Robert, whose scent was partially obscured by the aroma of red wine seeping through his pores, smelled better.

Sansa was surprised to find that Joffrey’s uncle, the famed knight known as the Kingslayer, was also a beta. Hearing tales of the knight’s strength and skills, his above average height and build, she expected he would be a prime alpha. But instead he was a sour-smelling beta just like his nephew.

Sansa knew she needed to find a way out of this betrothal, but how could she do so without angering the royal family?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't given Sansa a specific age in this fic, though she is obviously post-puberty. Feel free to think of her as whatever age you're comfortable with. Sandor is his book canon age so roughly 28-29.

**Sansa**

If Sansa had any respect for Joffrey Baratheon, she’d have lost it watching him in the training yards. He sparred with other young lords and some of the Red Keep’s guards, but it was clear that everyone was going easy on him. Everyone was afraid to hurt or humiliate the temperamental prince. With pride Sansa thought of how easily Robb or Jon (or perhaps even Arya) could best the prince with a sword.

When Joffrey glanced her way with a gloat, she passed her self-amused smile off as a sign of affection.

She’d been living in the capital for a fortnight now, and her appraisal of the entire royal family had only diminished in that time. Queen Cersei was aloof and carried herself with an air of self-importance even a queen wasn’t entitled to. Her twin brother Jaime had a similar arrogance, though at least he smiled from time to time.

King Robert was a jovial man, and though he hadn’t maintained his form, it was clear he was once a fierce warrior and a true alpha. He seemed to be a fair king, but it was hard to respect him when he was drunk more often than not.

Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella were kind enough, but it seemed their mother and brother’s oppressive presence stifled them. Sometimes Myrcella was kind to Sansa; other times she was cold, replicating her mother’s mannerisms in an obvious bid to earn the woman’s approval.

The other member of the royal family present in the capital was Tyrion Lannister, who everyone called the Imp or Half-man, due to his stunted stature. He spoke kindly to Sansa, but was often abrasive with others, including his own family. Most disconcerting though, his mismatched eyes were always watching keenly what was going on around him. Many times Sansa found his eyes following her every movement. His eyes bore no malice or even lust, but it unsettled her, nonetheless, as if he was trying to learn her innermost thoughts, or perhaps communicate some secret message to her through only his gaze.

Sansa’s attention was roused by the scent of Ser Jaime approaching from far behind her. But another scent was mixed in with it. The scent of an alpha. A powerful alpha, but past his prime. His scent had some similar undercurrents as Ser Jaime’s… the same undercurrents she detected in the Cersei, Tyrion, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen.

_Strange, no hints of Robert Baratheon’s essence in his three children…_

As the aromas – and the men carrying them – came closer, Sansa detected a third man. His scent was heavy and heady. An alpha in his prime. Intermingled with his natural essence were the aromas of sour wine, sweat, horse, and steel. The combined aromas made her belly tingle and her woman’s place ache.

She ignored the unwanted reaction of her body and instead focused on the other alpha. The threesome was approaching her, she could tell. When they were within earshot, without turning, she said, “Lord Lannister, Ser Jaime.” Only then did she turn, to find the confused expressions of Jaime and his father, Tywin.

“Lady Sansa,” Tywin bowed to Sansa’s curtsy, “Were you expecting us?”

“No, my lord, I smelled you coming.” She would not hide her abilities, as she had a hunch she may need to prove their validity in the near future if she was to get herself out of the betrothal to Joffrey.

Lord Tywin stared at her with an unreadable expression on his wrinkled but finely structured face.

Sansa allowed her eyes to drift to the third man, standing a few paces behind Tywin and Jaime. He was the tallest man she’d ever seen. His eyes were dark and intense even though his expression was one of practiced ambivalence. His shoulder-length hair was dark and swept to partially obscure the ruin that was the left side of his face. It was ineffective, as she could plainly see the man had been badly burned at some point in his life. His left eyebrow was missing, and what a pity that was, for his right brow was dark and perfectly arched. His mouth was asymmetrical, the left corner extending further into his cheek than its right counterpart. That corner of his lips must have been burnt away, and it left him with a permanent half-smile, or half scowl; she couldn’t quite tell.

His old wounds did nothing to diminish his physical appeal. He was frightening to behold but his scent was undeniably appealing. This was a man who had survived much, and – based on the fact that he was shielding Lord Tywin’s back – was a distinguished fighter.

“Ser,” Sansa tipped her head respectfully.

The man snorted in reply.

His rudeness didn’t seem to faze Jaime or his father, both of whom were still watching her with wonder.

“Grandfather! Hound!” Joffrey’s voice squeaked as he projected it to sound from the other side of the training yard where he’d just “bested” another opponent.

Sansa thought she heard the tall man snort again. Lord Tywin’s throat rumbled as he seemed reticent to release a greeting. “Joffrey,” he eventually said. It lacked both warmth and respect.

While the group of four watched Joffrey in his final spar, Lord Tywin attempted small talk, “I hear you’ve made quite an impression on Prince Joffrey. I hope the feeling is mutual.”

Sansa forced a smile, “The prince has indeed made an impression.” _A poor one._

Perhaps the sarcasm in her voice was too obvious, for the tall man snorted again.

Little more was said until Joffrey sauntered over to their group, “My lady,” he kissed Sansa’s knuckles with a pride he had no right to before turning to Tywin, “Grandfather, how was your journey?”

“Uneventful, my prince. May I offer my belated congratulations on your betrothal,” Tywin looked between Sansa and Joffrey as he spoke.

Sansa’s gut twisted upon hearing the B-word, but she forced a smile and replied courteously, “The Gods have blessed me with this match, my lord.”

Tywin’s lip curled up on one side, though it was no smile, “Indeed,” he responded.

As they walked in the general vicinity of the throne room, Sansa couldn’t focus enough to make small talk. The tall man’s every sound and scent – his mere proximity – was scrambling her brain. She’d felt this way before, but only when she was in heat. Her heat cycle was at least a moon away.

For the second time she forced the mysterious man out of her thoughts, even though it felt like he’d already invaded her body. “My prince, who is the Hound?” she queried, even though she knew the answer.

Joffrey hooked his thumb over his shoulder to where the tall man walked among Joffrey’s own guards, “The only one back there that looks like a dog,” he answered flippantly.

Sansa turned around and met the man’s eyes. She felt her eyebrow arch up playfully, though didn’t remember willing the muscles to do so, “If you mean the tall one, he doesn’t look like a dog to me.”

She turned back around but not before catching the man’s eyes widen in surprise he couldn’t hide.

“Well what does he look like then?” Joffrey asked casually.

“Like the Warrior,” Sansa answered honestly.

Joffrey laughed, “Hear that, dog? My lady fancies you for the Warrior. Perhaps she’s onto something!” Joffrey turned his attention back to Sansa, “He’s one of the fiercest men in the realm. He’s killed more men than the Stranger himself. That’s why I’ve tried to woo him away from grandfather’s service… haven’t I, grandfather?”

“Indeed,” Tywin answered emotionlessly.

“But the Hound is a loyal beast.”

Sansa nodded, “Loyalty is an admirable quality. I’m sure you respect that, my prince, even if you’d like to have him in your service.”

“Of course I do,” Joffrey answered rather snappishly before injecting false ambivalence into his tone, “Besides, only knights can guard a future king, and the Hound rebukes the vows of knighthood. What did you say about them, Dog?”

The tall man rasped, “Said they’re as useless as farts. Or tits on a Septa, depending on which conversation you’re thinking of, my prince.”

Sansa fought to contain a chuckle, even as the sound of his voice, deep and hoarse and with traces of neither arrogance nor appeasement, was making her belly buzz again.

“We’re in the presence of a lady, Clegane,” Tywin scolded half-heartedly.

“Oh, thank you, Lord Lannister, but I have four brothers. I doubt anything this… _Clegane_ could say could offend me.”

For the first time Ser Jaime spoke, his voice smooth and full of polished swagger the Hound’s lacked, “Be careful, Lady Sansa, he might take that as a challenge.”

Sansa smiled at the knight, “Well, then I shall prepare myself to be scandalized.”

Ser Jaime laughed heartily, “See, nephew? Aren’t you glad your father chose to match you with a wolf instead of a rose?”

Sansa knew her face bore shock when Ser Jaime’s eyes widened, “Oh… not to imply that there is another, my lady. Just—”

Sansa smiled, “Of course, Ser Jaime. A future king must carefully consider _all_ his options and choose the most suitable match.”

If Jaime thought she had been hurt by his words, he was grossly mistaken. She was glad to know there had been another consideration. Perhaps if she could find out who this woman was, and stoke Joffrey’s feelings for her, she would be cast aside. She’d pretend to be devastated, of course. She would leave the capital with her head hung low, but on the inside, she’d be laughing with glee.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sandor**

As soon as Lord Tywin dismissed him, Sandor headed for the guards’ tower and barred his door. He almost ripped the laces of his breeches to free his throbbing cock, which was leaking like a cunt.

He fisted himself only a few times before spilling into a handkerchief. The pressure was relieved, but there was no satisfaction. He’d never been satisfied his entire life. Not by his hands, not by the cunt or mouth of a whore. He’d considered fucking a man a few times over the years – so desperate was he to find the satisfaction that had eluded him – but the idea repulsed him too much.

He grew up in a lesser house, educated only in the basics of reading, writing, and mathematics. No one doubted that he and his brother would grow up to be soldiers. Time spent in lessons with the maester was time _not_ spent in the training yard. So he never learned about the traditional dynamics of alpha, beta, and omega. It wasn’t until he was a young squire at Casterly Rock that he overheard some guards whispering about Cersei Lannister – that she was a rare female alpha. This meant she was dominant, even compared to most men. She would never be a timid lady, bowing to her husband’s whims. The guards were more vocal about what it meant in a sexual capacity – that she would have the appetites of a man and a fierce way of making love that few men could handle.

It was the maester at Casterly Rock, treating Sandor for a relatively minor injury, who first told him that _he_ was an alpha. The man seemed fascinated that an alpha would be born to such a low house, and particularly south of Moat Cailin. The older families of the North were more likely to produce alphas, betas, or omegas. Sandor didn’t tell the maester that his grandmother was rumored to have been from the North.

Sandor feigned disinterest but was deeply curious. He casually asked questions and listened with a blank expression while the maester passionately explained that up until two thousand years ago, nearly every person was born as either alpha, beta, or omega. Alphas were natural rulers because they exuded confidence and were physically imposing. Most alphas were male.

Betas, equally common as male or female, were more even-tempered and thoughtful. They made good advisors. They could become great fighters through training but lacked the raw physicality of alphas. They could and often did become leaders but would instinctively yield to an alpha that challenged them.

Omegas were the meekest of the three types. They were almost always female and were mated to alphas, as they helped to balance the alpha’s intensity with their inherent gentleness.

The maester went on to explain that now it was very rare for a person to be born with any of the three dynamics. It was almost exclusive to the great houses whose blood could be traced back for thousands of years. It was at that point that the maester’s eyes saddened. In so many words, he said he pitied Sandor that he’d never get to meet an omega, or that if he did, she’d more than likely be promised to another. Omegas were highly desirable as wives due to their beauty, fertility, and sweet nature.

The old man’s words now felt like a premonition, for Sandor had indeed met an omega, and she was indeed promised to another – a pathetic excuse for a prince. Nay, a pathetic excuse for a _man_. Joffrey Baratheon was a simpering, spoiled brat. How two people like Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon could make such an utter waste of flesh was beyond Sandor’s comprehension. Everyone knew it, yet no one spoke of it. Sandor could see the disdain for Joffrey in Tywin’s eyes, in the Imp’s eyes, even in Jaime’s eyes. The guards sniggered about Joffrey when he wasn’t around. Wenches were rumored to speculate about whether there was a cock or a cunt between his legs.

And now that worthless cunt was getting a prize he was wholly unworthy of. A woman so beautiful it hurt Sandor to look at her. But he had subjected himself to the pain because something about her drew him in. He felt hypnotized by her blue eyes, her soft voice, her copper hair. In the minutes he was in her company he had strange desires he’d never felt toward any lass. He wanted to drop to his knees and sniff her cunt. He wanted to find her room and fuck her senseless, consequences be damned. He wanted to throw her onto his horse and ride them both out of this city – keep riding until they reached some faraway land where they could spend the rest of their lives physically joined together. He wanted to bury his cock in her sweetness and never pull it out. He’d walk, eat, even shit with her legs wrapped around his hips as her inner walls clamped around his cock. He hoped to die old and grey, still buried inside her.

 _Fuck, now I’m hard again_.

With no less vigor and no more satisfaction he tugged himself off a second time in ten minutes.

He’d always wondered if there was something wrong with him. Other men spoke about peaking like it was the greatest sensation a man (or woman) could ever experience. They talked about climaxing so intensely their faces became numb, at the service of a particularly skilled whore or particularly eager wench. But Sandor took almost no pleasure in climaxing. It relieved the pressure so he could go about his duties without a tent in his breeches, but pleasure never washed over him as his seed squirted out.

It was only today, after meeting Lady Sansa, that he knew what the problem was: he’d never been with an omega. It was that simple.

He’d hardly lived his life as an alpha. He was a feared man because of his size, his face, and his skills with a sword, but he didn’t use his dynamic to dominate or intimidate other men. At least not intentionally. Perhaps other men sensed that he was an alpha, but if they did, no one spoke of it directly.

He wasn’t sure why he’d never tried to assert his power. He knew enough by now to know that once a male alpha hit his prime, he found some way to distinguish himself. Sandor never sought recognition or even respect. He spoke with his sword and nothing more. He probably could have used his position as an alpha to advance his station in life; seek out a daughter of a middling lord to take as wife. Perhaps if his brother never held his face in a lit brazier, he would have. But as mangled and bitter as he was, he couldn’t imagine some sweet lady having any interest in him – certainly not an omega. Since omegas seemed to have their pick of mates, he didn’t want to risk the disappointment of rejection. So he became a dog instead. Loyal, obedient, protective, and dangerous. But still just a dog.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor does what he does when someone is nice to him. He acts like an ass.   
> But little does he know, Sansa is immune to his assdom (assiness? assishness?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who has read AGOT will recognize the scene between Sansa and Sandor in this chapter. I kept much of the dialogue verbatim, but changed Sansa's thoughts during the conversation, and some other elements.   
> As always - credit to GRRM.

**Sansa**

With each passing day, Sansa found new reasons to despise the _prince_. He was rude to servants and even to his own family – namely his younger brother and his uncle Tyrion. He was arrogant, selfish, and either insensitive or oblivious to the emotions of others around him.

Despite her unfavorable thoughts Sansa always treated the young man cordially. In the first weeks of knowing her, Joffrey returned her courtesy, but now he often snapped at Sansa when her words displeased him. He was quick to anger and seemed to seek out reasons for his rage, imagining insult where none was being offered. Only his father, Lord Tywin, and the Hound seemed to have his respect, and Sansa imagined it was because Joffrey’s beta nature was instinctively subservient to them, even if he had convinced himself he was an alpha.

There was a tourney a sennight after Lord Tywin arrived. The tourney was in celebration of the prince’s betrothal. Joffrey didn’t compete, for which Sansa was thankful – she knew no man would willingly best him. They’d throw themselves off their horses in a joust, or drop their swords and yield in a duel, and Sansa didn’t think she could stand watching that for four straight days.

During the tourney she found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the Hound – Sandor Clegane – every time he competed. He fought with skill that seemed as natural to him as breathing was to her. Multiple times she had to quickly avert her gaze when his eyes fell on her. She’d been caught staring more times than was proper.

Joffrey snorted beside her, “Look at this fool. Does he truly think he can best the Mountain?

“The Mountain?”

Joffrey nodded toward the lists, where a man even larger than the Hound was mounting a large black destrier, “The Mountain that Rides. Ser Gregor Clegane.”

“Oh… is he of relation to Sandor Clegane?”

“You mean the _Hound?”_ Joffrey sneered, “Yes, they’re brothers.”

Sansa watched this Ser Gregor line up at the opposite side of the lists against a young man who looked more like a squire than a soldier. She now understood Joffrey’s comment.

Surely enough, the young man was not just bested by Ser Gregor, but killed by him when Gregor’s lance slid right under the man’s chest piece and into his throat. Sansa averted her eyes, but the sight of the crowd’s passionate cheering was no less upsetting.

The festivities continued late into the night. Sansa was tired but also wary. The more men drank, the rowdier they became, and Joffrey was no exception. She tried her best to say the right words, but he found insult in everything, then used it as an excuse to berate her, often in front of others. Lord Tywin was silently seething at the boy, but he did nothing to intercede other than try to distract him a few times. Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime were conspicuously absent, and King Robert was deep in his cups, and presently occupied by the buxom wench on his lap. Lord Tyrion also tried to pull some of Joffrey’s attention onto himself, but other than a few unoriginal insults, Joffrey paid his uncle no heed.

Eventually Joffrey seemed to tire of Sansa’s presence altogether, even though she was nothing but the target the anger he so relished. Out of nowhere he called out, “Dog!”

Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog’s head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. “Yes, my prince?”

“Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” the prince told him brusquely.

Sansa was certain that Sandor wasn’t supposed to take orders from Joffrey – or anyone but his master, Lord Tywin, but she wasn’t about to point that out to the prince. Apparently, neither was Sandor, as he merely watched Joffrey strut away on wobbly legs, then turned to face her.

Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. “Small chance of that.” He pulled her unresisting to her feet. “Come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again, but it was mirthless.

The Hound snatched up a torch to light their way. Sansa followed close beside him. The ground was rocky and uneven; the flickering light made it seem to shift and move beneath her. She kept her eyes lowered, watching where she placed her feet. They walked among the pavilions, each with its banner and its armor hung outside, the silence weighing heavier with every step. She wondered if he could sense her odd attraction to him. The idea made her cheeks flush. “You rode gallantly today, Ser” she made herself say, hoping conversation would distract herself from his overpowering presence that was somehow alluring and frightening at the same time.

He snarled at her. “Spare me your empty little compliments, girl . . . and your ser’s. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?”

“Yes,” Sansa whispered, internally cursing herself for using the knightly title when she already knew Sandor had never taken the vows. “He was . . .”

“Gallant?” the Hound finished, the sarcasm dripping off of those two syllables.

He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last. It seemed like a safe thing to say. It wasn’t a lie, and nor did it paint his brother in a favorable light – or an unfavorable one.

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.”

“That’s unkind.” Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. This was the first time she was speaking to him alone, and he was mocking her. He, who she had inexplicably lusted after, was mocking her as if she was a stupid child. For some reason, it stung worse to know that he thought of her as a child than that he thought she was empty-headed.

“No one could withstand him,” the Hound repeated, but it didn’t sound mocking anymore. It sounded like her words were bringing forth an epiphany. He shook his head, “That’s truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn’t fastened proper. You think Gregor didn’t notice that? You think Ser Gregor’s lance rode up by chance, do you? Gregor’s lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me!” Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her until she was looking down at him, then moved the torch close. “There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you, staring at me, then turning away when I see you. Piss on that. Take your look.”

His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. But beneath it she saw _expectation_. He was waiting for her to look shocked or disgusted, but the truth was she had memorized his scars from a distance, many times over. Now was simply the first time she had the opportunity for a close-up examination – and she did just that.

The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of his face.

The left side of his face was a ruin, as she knew. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, waxy flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissures that gleamed when he moved. It reminded her of the dry mud alongside a stream, cracked from the summer heat when several days had passed without rain. She felt the overwhelming desire to _feel it_ , to trace the lines and whorls until she had them memorized not just by sight but also by touch.

He let go of her then and snuffed out the torch in the dirt. “No pretty words for that, girl? No little compliment the septa taught you?”

She tried to formulate the words to describe her true reaction – that his scars were like the rest of him – fearsome but not ugly. But standing here but a foot away from him, breathing in his scent, she was rendered speechless.

When there was no answer, he continued. “Most of them, they think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. One fool asked if it was dragonsbreath.” His laugh was softer this time, but just as bitter. “I’ll tell you what it was, girl,” he said, a voice from the night, a shadow leaning so close now that she could smell the sour wine on his breath, not just through his pores. “I was younger than you, six, maybe seven. A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father’s keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was Gregor’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight, all painted up, every joint pegged separate and fixed with strings, so you could make him fight. Gregor is five years older than me, the toy was nothing to him, he was already a squire, near six foot tall and muscled like an ox. So I took his knight, but there was no joy to it, I tell you. I was scared all the while, and true enough, he found me. There was a brazier in the room. Gregor never said a word, just picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off me. The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who’s been burned knows what hell is truly like.

My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his _ointments_ too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Arise, Ser Gregor.’”

The rasping voice trailed off, though she suspected he could talk on the topic of his brother for hours. He squatted silently before her, a hulking black shape shrouded in the night, hidden from her eyes. Sansa could hear his ragged breathing. She was sad for him, she realized. He tried to frighten her, and perhaps some part of her knew she _should_ be scared, but it was _hurt_ not malice that drove his behavior.

The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid, but for _him_ , not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. “He was no true knight,” she whispered to him. It was far short of what she wanted to say, but her odd emotions and desires were still overwhelming her mind, and even if she could find words to express them, she knew they’d be far from proper.

The Hound’s eyes narrowed as they moved from the shoulder where her hand rest, up her arm, to her face. Something like anger flashed in his eyes and she nearly stumbled back, but he caught her arm. “No,” he sighed, “no, little bird, he was no true knight.”

The rest of the way to the city, Sandor said not a word. He led her to where the carts were waiting, told a driver to take them back to the Red Keep, and climbed in after her. They rode in painful silence through the King’s Gate and up torchlit city streets. He opened the postern door and led her into the castle, his burned face twitching and his eyes brooding, and he was one step behind her as they climbed the tower stairs. He took her all the way to the corridor outside her bedchamber.

“Thank you, Sandor,” Sansa said meekly.

He stared at her then, his lips slightly parted. She had used his given name purposely, and she was glad he’d noticed. She would not call him Hound or Dog, and he’d told her multiple times not to call him Ser or My Lord. Saying his name made her heart flutter, like they were more than just acquaintances. It was far from proper, but he didn’t want to hear any _proper_ titles, nor had he used them with her except when others were present.

She saw a range of emotions flash through his grey eyes. Surprise, doubt, pride… but ultimately, they settled on anger. He caught her by the arm and leaned close. “The things I told you tonight,” he said, his voice sounding even rougher than usual, “If you ever tell anyone, including Joffrey…”

“I won’t,” Sansa interrupted firmly. “I promise.”

He looked like he had more to say, but instead he peered into her eyes, no doubt searching for signs of deceit. Without another word he turned on his heels and disappeared down the dimly lit hallway.

When she shut the door behind her she leaned against it heavily, her head thudding though she didn’t notice the pain. Her heart and belly were fluttering and her woman’s place felt painfully swollen and wet. It felt like every inch of her skin from her scalp to her toes was flushed. It was similar to being in heat, but less pronounced. Her brain still had control over her body, but she felt that control was slipping every day, due solely to this man who was angry and bitter but also unexpectedly vulnerable. Her heart longed to comfort him, to soothe his rage. She was certain she could, just as she was certain that his touch could relieve the need burning through her like a fever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sansa**

It was on the final day of the tourney that the handsome young _Knight of Flowers_ rode out to the cheers of the crowd and straight up to the dais where Sansa sat with the royal family. Each of the previous days he had picked a different maiden out of the crowd to hand a white rose to. Today he dismounted long enough to bow deeply, then handed a red rose to Sansa, “For the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the loveliest woman to ever grace them.” After a nod to Joffrey he donned his helm and mounted his horse, riding off toward the lists.

Joffrey sniggered beside her, “Bloody fairy. He can call every woman in the realm _lovely_ , doesn’t change the fact that he craves a different sort of company.”

Sansa turned to him, her brow creased in confusion, “I believe he meant it as a compliment to you, my prince.”

Joffrey turned to look at her, his jaw clenched, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he spoke under his breath.

Sansa stuttered to answer, not sure why Joffrey had taken offense, “T-to compliment your betrothed is to compliment you, my prince. Just as if a lady tells me I have made a fine match, she means it as a compliment to not just you, but also me.”

“Of course _you’ve_ made a fine match. I’m to be the king!” Joffrey’s voice was raised this time, and several sets of eyes fell on them.

Sansa lowered her head in embarrassment, “Of course, my prince. Forgive my poor choice of words.”

Joffrey snorted in dark amusement, turning back toward the tourney grounds, “It’s no matter. The Mountain will unseat him. Perhaps you’ll get to see whether your pretty Ser Loras’ blood matches the red of this rose.”

Sansa turned her attention to the joust underway. Ser Gregor undoubtedly had the size and strength advantage, but Ser Loras rode with grace and agility. After the first two passes, Ser Gregor’s horse seemed to become agitated. A few more passes and the horse bucked wildly, throwing its rider.

It took the large man a few moments to rise, and when he did he walked straight toward his horse which was now ambling near the dais, having followed over Ser Loras and his mount.

Without warning Ser Gregor brought his longsword down on his own horse’s neck, killing the poor beast instantly. Sansa gasped and covered her eyes, fearing she might lose her lunch. Beside her Joffrey chuckled, “Look at all the blood spurting out.”

Realizing she looked like a weak-hearted fool, Sansa uncovered her eyes but focused her stare on Ser Loras’ handsome albeit shocked face so she wouldn’t have to look at the horse’s severed head.

Suddenly Ser Loras’ eyes flashed with fear, and Sansa turned to the source of his panic to find Ser Gregor approaching him with his sword held high. Ser Loras was unarmed and began retreating backwards. Just as Ser Gregor swung, his sword met another, seemingly out of nowhere. The clang of steel on steel reverberated in the air around the tourney grounds. The Hound had blocked his brother’s swing and the two men were now engaged in a fight, swinging and parrying with the ferocity of starving wolves.

All the crowd had fallen silent and stunned until King Robert stood, “Stop, in the name of your king!” his baritone voice bellowed loudly.

The Hound dropped to his knees instantly, his head just below the arc of his brother’s swing. Ser Gregor looked to the king, back to his brother, then back to his king before dropping his sword into the dirt and stomping away.

The Hound rose and turned on his heels to return to wherever he’d been, but Ser Loras stopped him and lifted the taller man’s arm high into the air. Though Ser Loras had won, he owed Sandor his life. Joffrey may have called him a fairy, but the man was not without honor as he conceded victory to his savior. The Hound looked startled only a moment, then his face transformed into a scowl as onlookers began to applaud him, Sansa among them.

When his eyes fell on her they narrowed, and her hands froze mid-clap. Joffrey was shouting accolades in his squeaky voice, but Sansa heard nothing but the thumping in her own chest.

**Sandor**

Sandor wasn’t sure how he was going to survive the next two moons in King’s Landing until he and Lord Tywin departed after the royal wedding. Every day was an ever-worsening hell and he could blame it on no one but the little bird… Joffrey’s _betrothed._ She was temptation incarnate and he was clueless as to how to shake her from his increasingly vulgar thoughts.

He had tried to scare her away the night he escorted her back from the tourney fields to the keep. He wanted her to be so frightened that every time they crossed paths she would fly away in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t have to be tortured by her presence. But he failed miserably. She wasn’t afraid of him, even as he stood alone with her in a dark field, towering over her and grasping her chin in his vice-like grip. Instead of shrinking away from him she stared right at him, and her eyes bore no disgust, no fear, only… _admiration?_ He knew that wasn’t the right word, but it was the best he could come up with. Then, to make matters worse, she _thanked_ him at the end of the night. _Thanked him!_ He was drunk and crude, speaking to her the way no highborn lady should expect to be spoken to, and she’d thanked him for it.

Tonight he was bone-tired from fighting and drinking. He had intended to collapse into his bed and sleep off his wine-fueled stupor, but instead he found himself at one of Littlefinger’s brothels. Thanks to the tourney winnings he had the coin for a better breed of whore.

He went straight to the madame and requested a red-haired whore. The hardened woman didn’t flinch as she looked at him with a knowing grin, “Aye, redheads are popular these days. I’ve had to hire two more girls just to meet the demand. I’d speculate that our prince’s betrothed is to thank, but what do I know?”

“Just bring me a girl,” Sandor growled. He felt anger bubbling to the surface at the idea of other men conjuring the little bird’s image as they slid into lesser cunts. He ignored his own hypocrisy as he was led to a room with a table and bed, where a red-haired whore was indeed waiting for him.

He wasted no time to appraise her; he knew she’d be a poor substitute for what he truly desired. In less than a minute she was bent over the table and he was buried inside her with a fist of red hair in his hand. It wasn’t the right shade, but it was close enough as he rutted between her legs like a dog, his girth making the girl whimper. _She must be one of the new ones_. A better man would have slowed his pace or made his thrusts shallower, but he did neither. Only a couple minutes later he was spilling his seed, finding release but no satisfaction, just as always.

Having already paid the madame he handed the girl a few silver stags as a tip before leaving to return to his lonely bed in the guards’ tower.

…

The following night he took his place in the shadows of the dining hall, never letting Lord Tywin out of his sight though he didn’t expect there to be any threat.

He was separated from Robert’s Kingsguard by several feet, but still he could hear their voices, not that he wanted to. He was trying to enjoy the peace of knowing Gregor would be leaving the capital in two days. Lord Tywin always had some mission or another to set the man and his lackeys on, though Sandor suspected the old lion simply didn’t want to have Gregor anywhere near him. Gregor was a handy weapon, but Tywin Lannister liked keeping his hands clean – which meant keeping that weapon more than an arm’s length away. The evidence of Sandor’s theory was plain enough – Gregor could have been Tywin’s sworn shield, but he wasn’t. Tywin would rather see Sandor’s fucked up face than let Gregor anywhere near him

But unfortunately, two members of the Kingsguard were ruining what should have been an enjoyable night (as much as Sandor Clegane enjoyed anything). From previous encounters he knew the pair – Trant and Blount – were the worst of the lot, but truthfully only Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan ever exhibited any of the _honor_ knights were supposed to possess – and Jaime hid his honor well behind a veneer of entitlement and arrogance.

“They say she’s a true omega,” Blount spoke – not quietly enough, “you know what that means…”

Trant smiled, “Aye. Always wet, always ready.”

Sandor squeezed his sword pommel to occupy his hands, otherwise he’d find himself with one wrapped around each man’s neck.

Blount chuckled, “I hope it’s true, for her sake. Lately, the prince goes through whores like I go through socks.”

Trant joined in his comrade’s revelry, letting out a giggle the likes of which Sandor had only ever heard from the mouths of ladies and eunuchs, “Aye, but your socks are no worse for wear after a long day, I imagine.” Trant lowered his voice but Sandor could still hear him, “Not like his whores. Last one couldn’t even walk, I heard. And I don’t think his cock is big enough to cause such an injury.” Trant’s grin was enough cause for Sandor to run him through with his sword, but he didn’t feel like losing his head tonight.

Sandor pushed himself off of the wall and moved to stand a few paces further away before his blood boiled over. His gaze turned to the subject of the men’s conversation. She sat beside Joffrey, wearing a mask of indifference to hide what he was sure was a less pleasant emotion.

Sandor wasn’t blind. He saw the boy was turning into a monster. He mocked others openly, wielding his protected position. He basked in pain and bloodshed just like Gregor did when he was Joffrey’s age. Make no mistake, Sandor had long ago hardened against the suffering of others, but he did not take _pleasure_ in it. If Trant and Blount were correct, the boy didn’t just taunt his _subjects_ , he went so far as to abuse whores – women whose profession was pitiable enough without being turned into the whipping posts of men too powerful to be defied.

Joffrey was deep in his cups and his voice rose in volume with every passing minute. He was presently mocking some poor fool who’d died in the tourney. It wasn’t enough that the man died; Joffrey had to add insult to injury by making light of his death. _As if that blond cunt would do any better in a duel._

As King Robert was too drunk to mind his son’s manners, Lord Tywin moved to intervene. Sandor heard not what was said, only saw the Old Lion clamp a firm hand on his grandson’s shoulder as he whispered something into his ear.

“I’m not a child you can send to bed, grandfather!” Joffrey screeched.

Tywin’s eyes flicked around the room, but most of the other revelers were too drunk to pay much mind to the prince’s outburst. He lowered himself again to speak in Joffrey’s ear.

Again Joffrey responded in a loud voice instead of his grandfather’s subtle whisper, “She’s _my_ betrothed. I say when she has leave to retire.”

An intense stare-down took place, and even Sandor found the old lion’s piercing green eyes to be intimidating. Eventually Joffrey yielded. With a flick of his wrist he muttered, “Fine; she’s poor company tonight, anyway. I was just about to summon a guard to see her to her room… Ser Meryn!” Joffrey’s unfocused eyes scanned the room until they landed on the knight.

Trant stepped forward eagerly and the girl was led out. Lord Tywin raised his hand and summoned Sandor as well. _Doesn’t trust Trant alone with the girl._

Joffrey mumbled his orders for the men to escort Sansa safely to her chambers.

As soon as they were in the relative quiet of the corridor Trant opened his fat mouth, speaking in a tone that sounded nothing like the one he’d used during his conversation with Blount, “Enjoy the festivities, my lady?”

“Very much, Ser Meryn. Only I’m unaccustomed to such revelry and find I tire quite quickly.”

“You don’t have feasts in Winterfell?”

“We do, Ser, but my sister and I would often retire immediately after the meal.”

“Why is that, my lady?” Trant pressed.

“My parents thought it was not proper for young ladies to be in the company of… _inebriated_ men.”

Trant laughed, “Your parents are right about that, my lady. Too many lads and even men don’t know how to conduct themselves once they’re in their cups. Don’t worry, though, my lady, I and my comrades will keep you safe.”

Sandor rolled his eyes and again resisted the temptation to kill Trant. It would be disappointingly easy, but so satisfying…

The little bird forced a smile in the knight’s direction, “Thank you, Ser Meryn. I feel quite safe in the company of the Kingsguard.”

They had arrived at her bedchamber and Sansa politely bid them goodnight before disappearing behind the door.

As they walked back to the Great Hall, Trant shook his head, “That girl’s wasted on the likes of him, you ask me.”

Sandor growled, “I didn’t. And that’s your future king of whom you speak.”

“Aye, you going to tell him, Hound? I thought you could keep your mouth shut better than most. Besides, I’m sure you share my opinion, even if you don’t care to admit it.”

“Not my place to form opinions of princes and kings… or to share them with buggering knights who don’t know how to keep their mouths shut,” Sandor muttered.

Trant rolled his eyes but said no more.

Lord Tywin retired soon after, leaving Sandor once again with his confusing thoughts and desires and no outlet to alleviate his ache.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey continues to be the world's worst fiance. And Sansa realizes the extent of her attraction to the Hound.

**Sandor**

Sandor had always prided himself on being someone who kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, and his extended stay in King’s Landing was no different. He sometimes felt like a giant shadow – inexplicably invisible.

He’d observed numerous trysts over the years, usually amongst servants, and on rare occasion amongst nobles (or a noble and a servant). He’d overheard things that no one but the spiders in the walls were meant to hear.

Perhaps it was also fortuitous that his insatiable attraction to the littler bird drove him underground – literally. When exploring the chasms beneath the Red Keep, taking in the sight of the giant dragon skulls that had been placed down there haphazardly, as if dragon skulls were as common as ladies’ combs or old furniture, he heard the echoes of two sets of footsteps in the distance.

He snuffed out his torch and crouched under a staircase that seemingly led to nowhere.

Like a dog, he had excellent hearing, even with only one ear. He could tell the pair approaching consisted of one armored man of above-average size, and one woman, or perhaps a slight man. Thinking he was about to listen to some knight fuck his squire, Sandor resisted the urge to laugh at himself.

But when the footsteps came into the large room with the dragon skulls, it was the Kingslayer’s voice he heard: “This is insanity!” The man spoke angrily but in a hushed tone.

“Doing nothing is insanity. Continuing to live like this is insanity!” Cersei responded. At least Sandor thought it was Cersei. She spoke very little, instead communicating her thoughts with a scowl, sneer, or occasionally a forced smile that didn’t meet her eyes.

“Live like what? A _queen_?”

_Aye, definitely Cersei._

“You don’t know what it’s like! He humiliates me daily! Always drunk, always with a wench on his lap – that is, when he isn’t at a brothel.”

Jaime’s voice lowered, “And _you’re_ the image of loyalty?”

A loud smack echoed through the massive room. Sandor didn’t need to wonder who’d hit whom. Besides the fact that Jaime Lannister wasn’t one to strike a woman, Cersei Lannister was obviously the dominant one in their sick little relationship. Anyone with eyes could see that.

Jaime continued in a gentler tone, “I’m only saying, does it not benefit us that he is always away? Always distracted with a girl? Always too drunk to notice anything?”

“It’s the principle of it, Jaime! It is disrespectful of him to be so blatant! I am a queen! I am the eldest child of the Warden of the West – the man who helped him win his bloody throne! I am an alpha! A rare female alpha. And yet he still pines for that Stark bitch!”

Sandor’s veins burned. Was Robert Baratheon lusting after his own son’s betrothed? That could mean nothing good for Sansa, to have Robert _and_ Cersei’s unwanted attention, though for very different reasons.

“We cannot help who we love, Cersei. You and I know this better than anyone.”

“Fine!” she hissed, “Perhaps I’m jaded. When your husband calls out another woman’s name while bedding you for the first time, it leaves an impression.”

Sandor could hear Jaime let out a long-suffering sigh, “That was twenty years ago. Lyanna Stark is dead. But we’ve gotten far off topic, sister. You hate him? Fine. Hate him all you like. But what you’re talking about doing is madness.”

“Is it, _brother?_ Is it madness to kill a king? Or is it madness to let a mad king live?”

“Would you be quiet!?” Sandor heard a scuffle and imagined Jaime was gripping Cersei by the arms, trying to shake some sense into her. “Robert is not a mad king. Robert isn’t burning people alive, raping his servants and courtiers, threatening to burn down the entire bloody city!”

“He may not be as mad as Aerys, but he is utterly inept!”

“And who would replace him, hmm? If you go through with this plan of yours and manage to get away with it… who will take the throne?”

“Must you even ask that?! Robert’s heir, of course! Joffrey!”

“He isn’t ready, and you know it. He needs guidance. Isn’t that why father is here? Isn’t that why he agreed to extend his stay?”

“And Joffrey can learn from father while he sits the throne. It’s not like Robert is doing anyone any good!”

“Perhaps not, but he isn’t tormenting his subjects. Look how Joffrey treats his own betrothed! Berating her for no reason, and publicly no less! If he can’t summon respect for a woman as kind and lovely as Sansa Stark, who _will_ he respect?”

Cersei snorted, “ _Sansa Stark._ Another kind and lovely Stark girl. Just what I need… The girl is smarter than she looks.”

“And that is a bad thing?”

“Gods, Jaime, why are you so naïve? Of course it is a bad thing. We were supposed to get him a sweet, docile, omega. She may be an omega, but she isn’t so docile! She has that same wolf’s blood that Lyanna Stark had.”

“Cersei… perhaps she’s smarter than you think, more assertive, but she’s to be a bloody queen! Would you prefer her to be a delicate daisy that gets trampled underfoot?”

“I’d rather she be someone we can trust!”

“And who might that be, hmm? Tell me who you would trust to someday replace _you._ Another Lannister, perhaps? Won’t that be scandalous!”

“It doesn’t matter. The Stark girl is a tertiary concern. I will not spend another year of my life married to that pig. I’ve bided my time for decades, Jaime. The timing is finally right – Joffrey is of age and betrothed, father is here. There will not be a better time.”

Jaime snorted angrily, “I will not be party to this. I _cannot_.”

“Fine. I don’t need you. Cousin Lancel will—”

“Cousin Lancel is a fool!”

“A fool capable of slipping something into Robert’s wine. He will take Joffrey on a hunt the week before his wedding. He—”

“Stop. I don’t want to hear this.”

Footsteps started back in the direction they had come.

“Jaime, wait!”

The footsteps stopped again, “No. I will not stop you, sister. Nor will I tell anyone. I would only encourage you to reconsider this. If this doesn’t go according to plan, you will be executed, do you understand that? Along with Lancel and anyone else you rope into this scheme, willingly or otherwise.”

Sandor listened as Jaime’s steps faded away. Several quiet minutes passed before Cersei’s followed.

His legs were stiff and feet numb as he crawled out from beneath the stairs.

So Cersei was plotting to kill Robert. Sandor snorted to himself, supposing she had better motive than most. But Sandor agreed with Jaime – Joffrey would not be a better king than Robert. He’d likely be a much worse king. And without whatever thread of authority Robert had, Joffrey would be free to torment and abuse at will.

Sandor felt sick knowing the little bird would be one of his favorite targets. His beautiful little bird who looked like autumn, spoke like spring, and smelled like summer.

But how could Sandor Clegane, Tywin Lannister’s shield, do anything to prevent the events that were soon to unfold? Who would believe him?

He could go to King Robert directly, but Cersei and Jaime would deny Sandor’s claims. It would be two against one. Would Robert believe Sandor over the mother of his children and a member of his own Kingsguard?

Tywin Lannister wasn’t an option. He’d probably have Sandor killed on the spot for breathing a word of this – knowing it could lead to the execution of his golden twins, leaving only the Imp as an heir.

And what was Cersei’s comment about Tywin staying longer in the capital? Had this been a recent development? Sandor had been counting down the days he could leave the place where the little bird lived so he’d never have to be tortured by her again. Now Tywin was going to stay even longer than the originally planned three moons!?

Sandor knew there was nothing he could do about any of this. He couldn’t stop Cersei from attempting to kill Robert, nor could he divulge her plan to anyone without risking his own head. He couldn’t stop Joffrey from marrying the little bird and taking sick delight in her delicate young body. He couldn’t even stop Tywin from staying in the capital, nor make an excuse for why he should return to Casterly Rock on his own. Where his master went, he was expected to follow. The Hound was worth at least four of any other guard or soldier, and Tywin Lannister didn’t enjoy being followed by a horde of men all day long.

Sandor waited several more minutes before returning to his chambers, being extra careful when he emerged from the hidden passageway, so neither Cersei nor Jaime would know he had overheard their very enlightening conversation.

**Sansa**

Sansa spent her days just like the bored lady of court she was. She joined other women in the royal gardens for tea and gossip but being new to the city she had nothing to contribute. She prayed in the Sept. She worked on her maiden’s cloak, even though she hoped to never wear it – at least not to wed Joffrey Baratheon. She wrote letters to her family back home but could never share any of her true concerns because she suspected the grand maester read her letters before sending the ravens. She dined in the great hall. She watched Joffrey in the training yard, feigning interest. Once he invited her on a ride, a prospect which excited her until Joffrey spent the entire time talking about himself and his ambitions for the day he’d be king – none of which were noble.

On more than one occasion he’d made improper comments about his expectations of Sansa in their marriage. It was obvious he expected her to be a broodmare and nothing more. He didn’t want someone who would rule by his side or help run his kingdom or castle in any way. _“That’s what stewards are for,”_ he had said when she explained that her mother had groomed her to someday run a large household.

She had kept her eyes and ears open every day, hoping to learn _something_ that she could leverage to end her betrothal without losing her life or tarnishing her father’s reputation. But weeks into her stay in the Red Keep she had nothing more than a flimsy accusation based on her sense of smell. She couldn’t accuse Cersei Lannister of cuckolding her husband based on that alone.

Sansa completed her walk of the gardens feeling so disheartened she couldn’t recall a single flower she had seen.

She headed to the training yard, knowing Joffrey enjoyed when she observed his sparring bouts.

She arrived to find he was sparring with Tommen, his younger and much smaller brother. Tommen clearly was unskilled with a sword, and rather than teach his brother, Joffrey was attacking him – repeatedly hitting him with his own wooden sword on his torso, hips, arms and legs. Tommen appeared to be on the brink of tears but was trying so hard not to shame himself in front of the other men.

Joffrey seemed to be blinded by rage, though why he should be mad at his younger brother, Sansa did not know. Sansa wanted to say something, _anything_ , to pull Joffrey’s attention to her, but was also afraid it would only anger him more or humiliate Tommen if she was too obviously interceding on his behalf. As she considered her options Joffrey swung his sword hard and hit Tommen right in the face, slicing open the poor child’s cheek.

Without thinking Sansa ran to Tommen’s side, just as she’d done any time she saw Bran or Rickon’s blood when they were playing or training.

“Tommen, my prince, are you alright?!”

Fat tears hung on the boy’s lashes as he clasped his hand to his cheek, blood oozing between his fingers.

With no handkerchief she ripped off a section of her underskirt and bid Tommen remove his hand so she could press the cloth to his cheek. As she watched Tommen, he watched Joffrey with wide, wary eyes. Finally Sansa turned to the older prince, “He is your younger brother; it is your duty to teach him, not to hurt him.” As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She offered the words like friendly advice, but Joffrey would only hear insolence.

Joffrey’s eyes widened and his lips curled for a brief moment before Sansa felt something crack against her cheek. She was dazed and stunned by the blow, only afterwards realizing it was the back of Joffrey’s hand that had struck her. She was vaguely aware that voices around the yard were mumbling but no one was coming to intervene.

Tommen looked as shocked as Sansa felt, but when Joffrey grabbed Sansa’s arm to pull her to her feet, Tommen followed, clutching her other arm. Sansa couldn’t tell whether he was trying to protect her or protect himself until the young prince spoke, “Joffrey, she is your betrothed, you cannot strike her!”

Joffrey’s face was as red as Sansa’s hair when he spoke again, “I am to be the king! She cannot—”

“What’s going on here?” Jaime Lannister’s voice cut through Joffrey’s like a knife. The knight’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Tommen and Sansa each holding their right cheek.

Joffrey sneered, “I was _trying_ to teach Tommen how to fight, how to be a _man_. Lady Sansa saw a little blood and thought she had the right to scold me like I’m a child!”

Jaime’s jaw clenched as he looked at Tommen’s cheek. His green eyes looked like flames when he spoke to Joffrey, “You struck him on the face to _teach_ him?”

“Why not? Is an enemy going to only hit us where we wear armor?!”

Jaime shook his head and ground his teeth, “Come, Tommen, to the maester. Lady Sansa, do you need to see the maester as well?”

She shook her head, still feeling stunned.

Jaime shouted, “Hound! See Lady Sansa to her chambers.”

_Oh Gods, just what I need!_

Sansa ignored the tall man’s gaze as she walked back toward the keep, trying to keep her head high even though she knew her cheek was aflame. She was humiliated and hated that so many people witnessed the shameful moment. When they were out of earshot of anyone, the Hound rasped, “Save yourself some pain, girl, and give the little prick what he wants.”

Sansa shook her head, willing persistent tears to stay behind her eyeballs, “I don’t know what he wants.”

“He wants the meek little thing he was promised. He wants you to look at him like he’s your sun and moon and stars. You scolding him in front of a bunch of men? Hmpf! Stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Tommen is a sweet boy,” Sansa defended herself weakly.

“Aye, and sweet boys get killed in battle same as the mean ones.”

Sansa stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, “So you think Joffrey was justified?” She meant for her words to sound rhetorical, but they came out sounding only curious. It was times like this she wished she wasn’t an omega. She sounded polite even when she was angry. Except, of course, to Joffrey – who heard defiance in her most soft and timid voice.

The man blinked at her as if he didn’t understand the question. Then, as if by its own accord, his hand lifted and came within an inch of her sore cheek before stopping. The fingers were suspended in the air for excruciating seconds, and the desire to feel his touch robbed her of all reasonable thought. She tilted her head until her cheek was in his hand, closing her eyes as she did, so she could focus all her awareness on his scent and touch.

His hand was warm and rough, yet more gentle than she could have ever imagined. She heard his breathing stop and wondered whether he was feeling the same things she felt. The connection. The spark. The pull.

She left her eyes closed as if that could somehow keep the moment from ending, but too soon he had pulled his hand away. She opened her eyes and frowned but he leaned forward slowly, until his breath tickled the same cheek his hand had just cupped. His lips were so close to her ear that his every inhale and exhale sounded like the wind during a summer storm. The place between her legs tickled and ached and, in that moment, if Sandor Clegane lifted her skirts and pressed her against the wall to claim her, she would put up no resistance. Right there in the corridor outside her bedchamber, where anyone could come upon them.

“No, I don’t think he was justified,” Sandor whispered the answer to the question she’d forgotten she asked, “And I’ve never wanted to kill someone as badly as I want to kill him – and that includes my cunt of a brother – all because he dared to put his hand on you… I want to cut off that dainty little hand of his and beat him with it. Would you like that, my lady?”

In asking her a question she realized she’d been doing nothing but trembling and panting while he spoke. Her throat was too dry to speak, and what could she say, anyway? That the idea of him killing or maiming another man for her made her sopping wet between the legs? That the feel of his hand on her cheek and now his breath against the shell of her ear was the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced – so much more arousing than Joffrey stealing kisses in the gardens?

No; the _proper_ thing to do would be to push him away and tell him she loved Joffrey and didn’t wish to see him harmed. That the Hound was forgetting his place and acting far too familiar with her.

But being proper was the last thing from her mind. Suddenly the word had no meaning, like she was hearing it in a foreign language and completely out of context.

_Proper? What is proper?_

All definitions of the word fled and were replaced by a primal knowledge that the only opinion that mattered to her was that of the man towering over her now, invading all her senses like a drug. If he said it was proper to take each other right here in this corridor, she would do it, and not stop even if nattering maids walked by. She would lay her head on the executioner’s block without remorse or regret. When they asked her if she wished to make a final statement, she would shout for all to hear, “I laid with Sandor Clegane, and I’d do it again!”

As if the Gods were giving her the opportunity to prove her conviction, footsteps sounded from around the corner. Sandor straightened to his full height and moved to take a step back, but Sansa grabbed his arms to keep him close to her. He looked down at her, puzzled, as the footsteps got closer.

When the unknown person was just about to turn the corner the Hound pushed down on her door handle and practically threw her inside, closing the door behind them.

“Are you mad?!” he shouted in a whisper.

She smiled at him, “Yes, I believe I am. Mad for you.”

He walked to her sideboard while shaking his head, then downed a goblet of wine in one long draught.

Now that he was alone with her in the privacy of her bedchamber and obviously trying to distance himself from her, Sansa wondered if he did not return her attraction. She’d been so fixated on pondering her own emotions and desires that she hardly stopped to wonder how he might feel. Perhaps he found her pretty but did not feel the same primal pull.

She approached him slowly and touched his forearm lightly, “Do you not feel the same way?” she tried to keep her voice casual, as if it did not matter either way.

He snorted loudly, “Mad? Aye, I must be.”

“About me?” she asked to clarify.

Long seconds passed, perhaps minutes, before he answered. In that time she saw the conflict play across his mismatched features so clearly it was like watching a mummers’ show. She saw doubt, curiosity, hope, lust, fear, anger, hope, doubt, hope, doubt…

“I’ve got nothing for you, little bird,” he stated definitively, then put his goblet down and turned to leave. He disappeared into the hallway and Sansa felt like she’d been stabbed in the belly. She literally collapsed because she had no energy to hold herself up. This feeling was so strong it was ruling over her like a master with a whip. She needed him. Now that she’d had a small taste it felt like she couldn’t breathe without him near. Her chest was tight and each breath of air was hard-won.

_What did his words mean? “I’ve got nothing for you…”_

She wracked her brain searching for some hidden message. Did he mean he didn’t want to give her what she was looking for?

 _What **am** I looking for?_ _His cock? His cloak? His undying love?_

Or did he mean that he could not offer her what a prince could? Was he of such humble means that he didn’t think he could provide for her?

If it was the latter, it wasn’t a problem. Her family was wealthy. If she returned to Winterfell with a husband and explained that he was her true mate, they would understand. Jon and Maester Luwin would help them understand. Arya might be on her side as well, pleased to see her sister wed a fearsome soldier, unmatched in his domain, instead of a handsome but soft lordling. Sandor could take over Ser Rodrik’s position of Master-at-Arms and Sansa could stay at Winterfell to help run the keep. 

_Yes… this could work!_

_But you’re still betrothed to Joffrey. You can’t leave the city, and even if you could, breaking the betrothal without just cause would be seen as a betrayal. You’d bring the king’s wrath down on the North and all its allies…_

Sansa sat on her bed, her momentary optimism shattered like an icicle fallen from the greaves. She was in a strange city, with no friends except perhaps the tall man who either didn’t return her affection or did but thought himself unworthy of her. Even if she could count him as an accomplice, he didn’t strike her as the type to understand politics. He fought with a sword, but Sansa would need to fight with logic and perfectly chosen words.

She would put Sandor Clegane out of her mind for now. Her sole objective must be ending her betrothal without any repercussions. Only when that happened would she explore this bond between the wolf and the hound. For now she would—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light rapping on the door.

“Enter,” she called, hoping her voice sounded calm.

The door opened and Tyrion Lannister walked in looking contrite.

“May I have a few minutes of your time, Lady Sansa?”

“Of course, my lord,” Sansa gestured to one of the two chairs, “Would you care for some wine?”

Tyrion nodded, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

After Sansa handed him a goblet Tyrion pointed one stubby finger at the other goblet sitting on the sideboard, “Drinking this early?”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed, “Oh, I, eh…”

“I’m joking, my lady,” Tyrion chuckled.

“Oh, of course,” she forced a smile.

“I have no fear you’re a lush. After the morning you had, you’re entitled to a glass of wine… or three.”

Sansa smiled more genuinely now, “One is usually enough for me.”

“Ah,” Tyrion smirked, “I miss those days… anyway, you’re a very perceptive young lady, so I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

Sansa lifted her brows, “I know what prompted your visit though I do not know the _purpose_ of your visit.”

“Indeed, I suppose not… I came to apologize for the unfortunate situation this morning. Robert and my father will speak to Joffrey and make sure he knows it is _not_ appropriate to strike you, under any circumstances.”

Sansa had many retorts for that, namely the fact that certainly Joffrey had been told this before and shouldn’t need reminding. Instead, she said, “I should not have spoken against my prince in front of others. I humiliated him, and his reaction was understandable given he was in the midst of training. I understand men can get caught up in the… _thrill_ of the fight. I’m sure under other circumstances he’d have not resorted to that action.”

Tyrion stared at her contemplatively. She felt awkward under his appraisal but didn’t know how to end it. Eventually Tyrion snapped his eyes away as if waking from a trance, “Be that as it may, it was unacceptable. You are a forgiving and kind young woman. Those are admirable qualities; however I hope you will not be afraid to come to me if… if a firmer approach is needed.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of his offer. As far as she knew, Tyrion held no sway over Joffrey. Joffrey ridiculed the dwarf more than any other victim.

The best Sansa could figure, Tyrion was offering to be the middleman – to bring her concerns to his father, who no doubt was the less approachable Lannister man.

With a slight bow, Tyrion left Sansa’s company, but not her thoughts. _Could he be the ally I need?_ It must be carefully considered; whatever personal rift there was between Tyrion and Joffrey, they were still family. Tyrion seemed close to his brother Jaime, even if not his sister. He also seemed fond of Tommen and Myrcella, who would be unfortunate victims of Sansa’s accusations, if it came to that.

Sansa wondered if she should talk to Sandor about her plans (though _plans_ was too strong a word). Perhaps, even if he avoided politics, he would understand the Lannisters enough to guide her. At minimum, he might be able to tell her whether Tyrion Lannister could be trusted, and to what degree.

It was not even midday, but Sansa decided to take a nap. She would approach her dilemma with a fresh mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sansa**

Despite Sansa’s deep motivation to change her fate, the days bled together into sameness. Joffrey continued to treat her with false courtesy at best, and unwarranted viciousness at worst. Sansa was no closer to a solution for her dilemma than she had been the day Joffrey struck her in the training yard. She’d had no opportunity to speak with Sandor Clegane alone, so she’d yet to determine whether he or Tyrion Lannister could be counted as an ally in what increasingly felt like a futile mission to end her betrothal. She was but a girl – one that everyone thought of as submissive and simple-minded. No one would respect her opinion on anything other than the type of stitch to use on a particular tapestry or dress.

She considered requesting a private audience with King Robert, but it seemed Tywin Lannister was often in his company. When it wasn’t Lord Tywin, it was Ser Jaime, acting as Kingsguard. Sansa knew she couldn’t accuse Queen Cersei of _anything_ with her father or brother present.

She resigned herself to keep her eyes and ears open for any opportunities to meet with the king alone, or to gather evidence she could use against the queen or the crown prince. But to make matters worse, Queen Cersei and a squadron of ladies and handmaidens were often with Sansa during those weeks to prepare for the royal wedding. _Her_ wedding – if she didn’t get herself out of this mess.

And it would be a mess, of that she had no doubt. Not only was she not attracted to Joffrey physically, but he had absolutely no redeeming qualities.

Perhaps in time she could learn to love a man even if he wasn’t an alpha. But there was nothing about Joffrey she could ever love. He was rude, temperamental, spoiled, crass, and a thousand other unsavory things – some that a lady would _never_ say out loud. For one of the only times in her life, Sansa wished her younger sister were here. Arya would voice all the thoughts that Sansa was having, without being prompted. She’d call Joffrey a… a… a _prick!_ Sansa blushed at the thought and had to fight back a smile as she pretended to listen to whatever Joffrey was saying during the midday meal.

Arya would also call him a bastard, too. Which he was. But not just in the literal sense. He was a _bastard._

Arya would call him a whinging ninny, a nance. She’d say he had the brain of a toad and the… _cock_ of a fieldmouse. Actually, Arya would say he had no… _cock…_ at all; that in its place he had the _other_ c-word.

Sansa’s cheeks were burning. Desperate to turn away from Joffrey who was still bleating on about who knew what, Sansa looked around the dining hall. It was a horrible idea, for her eyes landed on Sandor Clegane, and he was staring back at her with his good eyebrow raised slightly.

“Frightening, isn’t it?”

Sansa nearly jumped when she realized Joffrey was speaking _to_ her, not _at_ her.

When Sansa only responded with a confused look, the imposter prince jutted his chin toward Sandor. Sansa felt her blush deepening and wondered if her cheeks could melt butter.

“Oh, no, my prince. _Unusual_ is the word I would choose.”

“Unusual?” Joffrey snorted in amusement and condescension. He could fuse together those two sentiments with almost admirable skill.

“Yes. He doesn’t frighten me, but his scars are indeed a sight to behold. I imagine facing him in battle or even the training yard must be terrifying.”

“If he doesn’t frighten you, you’re a bloody fool.”

_And you’re a whinging-ninny-cunt. Oh Gods, I didn’t say that out loud, did I?_

“He has given me no cause to fear him, my prince.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes, “He could break you in half with his bare hands, do you realize that? He’s a dog on a leash. If not for my grandfather controlling him, who knows what type of menace he would be?”

_No worse than you’ll be when your father isn’t around control you…_

“Of course, my prince,” Sansa agreed only in hopes that the conversation would end.

For once, her hope was answered. Joffrey turned back to his meal and his wine, and Sansa only glanced toward Sandor Clegane long enough to see that his eyes were still on her, even if his head was turned toward his master, Lord Tywin.

…

Sansa woke a fortnight before her wedding with the familiar tingling that signaled her heat was upon her. The first two days would be uncomfortable, but not unbearable. It was only as her cycle progressed that it would become impossible to think of anything except her instinctual yearning to breed.

She didn’t welcome the angst-filled days that would follow, though it now seemed to present an opportunity. A true alpha would find her presence unbearably tempting during this period. Older, experienced alphas could contain their urges, but a young alpha – like Joffrey was alleged to be – would find her irresistible, and only a heavy, locked door would keep them from seeking her out.

Sansa carefully made her plan…

She sometimes skipped the morning meal, instead breaking her fast alone in her bedchamber, but today she headed for the Great Hall.

As expected, upon her entrance, Lord Tywin’s head rose, and his eyes found her immediately before quickly darting away. She took her seat at the table of the royal family, between Joffrey and Myrcella. Tommen and Tyrion sat to Myrcella’s right. Across from Sansa sat Robert, Cersei, Tywin and Ser Jaime. Robert glared at her when normally he’d pay her little heed.

“Good morning, everyone,” Sansa greeted warmly. Only Tyrion, Tommen, and Myrcella offered more than mumbled responses or nods.

Her cheeks flushed as she felt King Robert’s eyes roving over her. She smiled at him innocently, “Your grace, Joffrey has told me you’re preparing for a great hunt to commence in a sennight. Is it a tradition in your family for fathers to take their sons on a hunt to celebrate their impending nuptials?” Sansa stirred honey into her tea casually, though in truth she felt as taut as a harp string.

Robert’s cheeks were even ruddier than usual when he answered, “It is indeed a tradition, Lady Sansa. Does your father not do something similar?”

“Robb has not yet married, your grace. He will wed Lady Manderly of White Harbor in a moon. But no, I do not believe we keep this tradition. However, my father hunts often with Robb, Theon, and Jon.”

Sansa cast her eyes briefly to Lord Tywin to find he, too, was having trouble keeping his eyes off of her.

She could tell her presence was making Robert uneasy as he pushed away his unfinished meal and instead took a healthy swig of warm ale. He seemed to be desperate for a distraction when he spoke again, “Aye. Those vast lands of the North are good for game, if nothing else… So Robb is to wed the Manderly girl, eh? I believe Ned mentioned that to me during our visit. What of the bastard?”

Sansa smiled, “Jon is quite well. As I’m sure you know, he presented as an alpha and will be my father’s heir. When I—”

Joffrey snorted, “A _bastard_ as his heir? What nonsense is that?”

Sansa discreetly looked toward Ser Jaime, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“My prince, in the North we keep to the traditional laws of inheritance. An alpha male is heir, even if he is baseborn. Next would be any trueborn male. Then an alpha female. Then a beta male. As I was saying, when I left Winterfell, father was discussing a match for Jon with Lady Dacey Mormont of Bear Island.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes.

Sansa continued speaking gently, “Do the Crownlands observe different rules of inheritance?” She already knew the answer.

Joffrey snorted, “Of course. The eldest _trueborn_ son is the heir. If he happens to be an alpha, as is the case with me, he is all the more revered.”

Sansa lightly touched his forearm, “Of course, my prince. A trueborn alpha son is every father’s aspiration.” Sansa turned her attention to Cersei and Robert, “You have been blessed by the Gods.”

Turning back to Joffrey, who was as disinterested in her as could be, and showing no signs of discomfort by her proximity, Sansa continued, “My prince, it is a lovely day. I had hoped you might join me for a stroll in the gardens… or perhaps even a ride, if your schedule permits.” She added a playful smile to hint that it was more than her platonic company she was offering.

Joffrey waved off her request, “Perhaps, if I have time. I’m overseeing preparations for the hunt.”

Sansa let her smile fall away into a frown but did not remove her hand from his arm, “Of course. I’m sure your preparations will pay off and your hunt will be a spectacular success!”

This time, when Sansa sought Tywin Lannister with her eyes, it was not a fleeting glance. She held his gaze and didn’t have to fake a blush. Her cheeks heated as she took in the sight of the tall and handsome alpha, even if past his prime, appraising her with narrowed eyes. When her eyes returned to the king, she could see even his appeal. It was an irrefutable fact that the king had indulged in too much food and wine to maintain what was once, no doubt, an appealing physique. But in her current state she could appreciate the handsome face beneath the overgrown beard, and the muscular arms and shoulders that still existed beneath an ample layer of fat.

Though she had little appetite for food, Sansa nibbled on a honeyed roll. Tyrion attempted to make conversation, but it was largely one-sided. No doubt he and every other adult at the table was thinking exactly what Sansa wanted them to think: that Joffrey was no true alpha. They likely all knew, but to have such evidence presented so conspicuously seemed to put all of them into a state of wariness. Cersei seemed to be using every muscle in her neck to keep from looking in Ser Jaime’s direction. Tywin and Robert were similarly trying to avoid letting their eyes linger too long on Sansa. And Tyrion was, as always, taking in every movement, every look, every unspoken thought and emotion.

Tywin was next to speak, his voice uncharacteristically rough as he beckoned over a page, “Send word to Clegane: he is to report directly to my chambers at once. I’ll have need of him today.” With that the old lion rose and excused himself to see to his duties.

Sansa smirked triumphantly on the inside. Lord Tywin didn’t want his alpha _dog_ anywhere near his soon-to-be granddaughter. The man was no fool. He’d likely find increasingly contrived reasons to keep Sandor in his presence for the next several days, while avoiding Sansa like she had greyscale.

Sansa rose only a few moments after the old lion, “I too must see to my duties; I have some final alterations to make to my maiden’s cloak.” Sansa smiled at Cersei in particular, then turned to leave.

**Sandor**

Sandor was following the aromas of bacon and sweetbread to the hall when, just outside the large oak doors, a page nearly ran into him. Sandor’s reaction was a growl low in his throat.

“Apologies, Ser, I was sent to retrieve you. You’re needed at Lord Lannister’s chambers at once.”

Sandor groaned and was about to utter some choice words when the man himself emerged, walking with a purpose, “Clegane, with me.”

Fighting the desire to ask what was so bloody important that it couldn’t wait five minutes so he could fill his belly, he fell in behind his lord like the ever-obedient dog he was.

Tywin looked agitated but Sandor knew it wasn’t his place to ask if something was amiss. Tywin would tell him anything that he might need to know.

As they walked across the courtyard, Sandor’s steps slowed involuntarily as his nostrils picked up an odor that was as pleasing as it was ineffable. He found himself sniffing in the air like a true dog, only to identify the source of the aroma was behind him. He turned without breaking his stride and saw the little bird following many paces back.

He nearly walked into Lord Tywin as the older man turned on his heels abruptly, “Clegane!” he barked.

Sandor stared at his lord, not knowing what he’d done wrong and lacking the mental capacity to contemplate it, as the scent of the little bird was rapidly becoming his only point of awareness.

Tywin’s eyes darted over Clegane’s shoulder then back to his face, “Never knew you to have trouble keeping up. _Now_ , Clegane.”

Sandor continued walking, but with every step his confusion mounted along with urges he was powerless to suppress. Where in the past weeks of knowing her, the little bird was like a strong red wine he desperately wanted to taste, she now seemed as fundamental as water to a man walking the Dornish deserts. He fixed his eyes on Tywin Lannister’s back, forcing his body to mimic the man’s steps: left, right, left, right, until they arrived at his chamber door.

Tywin looked at him sternly, “You are to guard my door until I have dismissed you, understood?”

Sandor nodded, “Yes, my lord.”

Seemingly thinking more needed to be said Tywin curled his lip, “You are _not_ Joffrey’s man. You serve House Lannister only. If he summons you, you are not to respond, but to tell me immediately.”

Sandor nodded again and watched his lord hesitantly enter his chambers and close the door behind him.

Alone with his thoughts, Sandor tried to make sense of the odd force that overcame his body in the courtyard. He’d always had tremendous self-control, it was one of the things he knew Tywin Lannister respected about him, even if he’d never said as much. But today it felt like he was merely a puppet on a string. Only the puppet master wasn’t some external force but something _inside_ him. Something that had laid dormant for decades, but now that he’d felt it, he knew it had always been there. Like a snake hidden in the grass, waiting patiently to strike. And just like the snake, whatever bit him was poisoning his blood with a heat that felt like fever. His cock was hard as Valyrian steel though there was no apparent stimulus to blame. His every muscle was tensed and rigid as if he’d spent the prior day carrying logs up a hill. His hands clenched into fists until even his blunted fingernails drew blood.

He needed… _something._

_You know what you need. And you know where you can find it._

No. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be _her_ – barely a woman, promised to another, with the blood of ancient kings in her veins. It couldn’t be _her_ with her incessant chirping and unshakeable manners, who represented everything he despised. It couldn’t be her with her hair like spun copper, her eyes like an unblemished sky, her skin like dragonbone…

It couldn’t be her that had invaded his thoughts, beckoning him with a silent voice, a touchless caress. It couldn’t be her that had gotten under his skin and was now willing his legs to carry him to her chambers. It couldn’t be her.

_It couldn’t be._

_It couldn’t be…_

**Sansa**

If Tywin and Sandor hadn’t turned into the guest tower, she wasn’t sure she could have stopped her feet from following them. She had smelled him before she even left the hall. Her heart raced, her back began to sweat, and her ears burned.

Instead she sat in her chamber, staring at the in-truth fully completed cloak. Sansa had no valid distractions.

Her plan had exploded in her face, leaving her feeling empty and agitated. Her legs had followed him and Lord Tywin across the courtyard of their own volition. She saw nothing but him as she walked, and when he slowed down and turned, his eyes immediately locked on hers. For a moment she thought he would run to her, but the rational part of her brain knew it was good that he hadn’t. When he fell in line behind Tywin again, the moment was over, and she felt like she’d been cheated and robbed. It seemed as if the Gods themselves wanted her to join with him, yet _men_ would continually get in their way. 

Though perhaps something good could be salvaged from this morning. If Robert Baratheon was truly ignorant of his son’s nature, he wouldn’t be anymore. If he had any honor, he would not wed his son to her, knowing betas and omegas did not pair well. Perhaps he may also wonder why he and his alpha wife hadn’t produced at least one alpha child. That was the greater hope for her, because that was the more likely scenario to drive Robert to end the betrothal.

Now Sansa had nothing to do but wait. Wait and hope for someone else to save her from a horrible marriage to a horrible man. She didn’t allow herself to wonder what her life would be like as Joffrey’s wife. She was pragmatic enough that she ought to be preparing herself for every possibility, yet her brain simply couldn’t fathom being _his_. It was like pondering the inner thoughts of worms. It was simply too incongruous to imagine. 

**Tywin**

It was not like Tywin to be unfocused on his work, but this morning’s events were replaying in his mind and churning up memories from a period in his life that felt like another lifetime, altogether.

The girl was in heat; Tywin could smell it when she walked into the large dining hall. So could Robert, by the look of things. Even Cersei seemed to have her suspicions, and Jaime and Tyrion noticed Tywin and Robert’s reactions, if nothing else. But Joffrey was impervious to her physical allure. Tywin was loathed to admit, even to himself, that it _wasn’t_ a surprise.

When Cersei invited him to King’s Landing for the tourney and upcoming wedding, she’d made it abundantly clear that Joffrey needed guidance from a firmer hand than Robert’s. That wasn’t a surprise, either. Robert was a soldier, and a good one at that. He could lead men on the battlefield better than nearly anyone, but he lacked the skills for politicking that were a necessity for any king.

Joffrey, like his father, had no sense for politics, but, even worse, exhibited no leadership capabilities whatsoever. All the training in the yard could hardly shape the boy into a soldier, much less a commander. If he was an alpha, then Tywin was a fool. How Ned Stark agreed to this betrothal was a mystery to Tywin, but he wouldn’t complain about his grandson being wed to the eldest born daughter of the Warden of the North, a girl with blood ties to the Riverlands and Vale, to boot.

No, Tywin’s issue with the betrothal wasn’t political; it was a fundamental, impossible-to-ignore resentment of an unworthy man being matched with such a very worthy lady. Lady Sansa was poised, well-mannered, gentle, beautiful, and charming. She was an ultimate omega and despite Joffrey being his grandson, Tywin couldn’t help but pity the girl her fate.

If he allowed himself to ponder it further, he’d admit that there was an even more personal reason for Tywin to despise the match. Sansa reminded him in so many ways of his late wife, Joanna. And with each passing day, Joffrey reminded him more and more of the Mad King, Aerys II. The man who raised Tywin up to the position of Hand, only to subsequently try to tear him down. Jealousy was the Mad King’s weakness, but not his only one. When he couldn’t obtain for himself the respect that others gave so freely to Tywin, he became vengeful. He tried to _take_ from Tywin as he perceived Tywin had taken from him. He blatantly lusted after Joanna to the point that Tywin sent her home to Casterly Rock to save her from the man’s inevitable advances.

With a sigh Tywin sat back in his chair and allowed himself to wonder if the odd protectiveness he felt toward Sansa Stark was a manifestation of instincts he had as a young husband – a young alpha pair-bonded with his omega. Their connection was so strong that they spurned societal rules and married even though they were first cousins. With an emotion somewhere between pity and jealousy Tywin wondered if Sansa had ever felt such a connection with anyone. Perhaps this half-brother Jon that she and Robert discussed over breakfast…

Regardless of his mixed emotions there was naught to be done. Family and legacy always came first for Tywin Lannister, and Joffrey was both. Tywin would die with a grandson for a king, even if he didn’t have a son for an heir. Jaime would never renounce his Kingsguard vows to take the Rock and Tyrion… well, Tyrion would never be the heir that Tywin wanted. How could he be, when it was his very entry into this world that stole Tywin’s beloved mate?


	8. Chapter 8

**Sandor**

Sandor awoke before dawn with the same image in his mind’s eye that had been haunting his every sleeping and waking moment for the past two days: the little bird, spread out beneath him in her large bed, her legs and arms open and inviting, beckoning him home. It had been two days since he’d seen her in the flesh – and then only a brief glance in the courtyard before Lord Tywin hurried him along – but his skin prickled with the sensation of her touch in places she’d never touched him.

To add to his woes he felt fevered and ill, like a whiskey hangover minus the pleasant drunkenness that should precede it. He sat up in his too-small mattress. He had slept only in his smallclothes yet had sweated through the bed linens. The chills that should accompany his damp skin meeting the cool morning air never presented. He continued to burn, inside and out. He guzzled water and paced his small quarters, but nothing alleviated the unpleasant sensation. His cock was hard as steel – again – but he didn’t bother to stroke himself. He’d done it the previous morning and two previous nights but found even less than the normal, inadequate relief.

He was sick, but no maester could cure him. Sweet sleep would only condemn him to more hours of the same dream. His normal course of action would be vigorous training, but it held no appeal and would, in fact, only get his blood up even more.

He wanted to tear out his hair, claw off his skin, gouge out his eyeballs. But he knew even all that wouldn’t get _her_ out of his system. A dunk in a cold bath wouldn’t soothe the burn. A strong drink wouldn’t sweat it out through his pores.

By the time the sun was peeking over the horizon, all semblance of sane thought had fled him. He was a starving animal that would let nothing deter it from finding its next meal. He was barely aware enough to dress himself before stealing out of his room, out of the guards’ tower, and toward the main keep.

**Sansa**

Sansa went through her morning ablutions without thought or awareness. Rinsing her mouth with mint water. Splashing her face with cool water that offered no relief. Brushing and braiding her hair even though she had no intention of leaving her room this day – or the next three days.

There was a knock on her door and Sansa huffed to herself. She’d told the maid she would have no need of her today, but clearly the girl hadn’t remembered.

But when she crossed the room and was about to turn the lock, she paused. It wasn’t a maid that had knocked. It was _him._

Fear, arousal, and anticipation coalesced in her belly as her trembling hand twisted the lock. She took a step back as her heart pounded against her ribs, sending blood whooshing into every nook and cranny of her body. She watched the knob turn slowly, deliberately – reflecting the reluctance of the man on the other side.

When the door opened, he filled the entire space and stood there, staring at her, for long moments. His eyes were black, his face was flushed and shimmering with sweat. His broad chest was rising and falling rapidly, straining the fabric of his tunic with each inhalation in a way that mesmerized Sansa.

His hair was sleep-mussed instead of carefully combed over his scars. His clothing seemed to have been donned without any care at all for appearances.

Though she offered no smile, she knew her eyes bore a heated welcome as they locked on his. For perhaps the first time in her life she didn’t feel meek or delicate. She felt like a she-wolf. Arya used to say all the Starks were wolves except for Sansa, who was a flower. Arya’s words were true any other day of Sansa’s life.

But not today…

He finally took two steps into her room and turned slowly, shutting and locking the door behind him. The very click of the lock sent a pulse of blood between her legs.

Instead of turning to face her he pressed his head against the thick slab of wood he’d just entered through. The muscles in his back flexed under the fabric of his shirt, giving Sansa strange and unladylike ideas.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice raspier yet gentler than she’d ever heard it.

“Don’t be,” she replied once her mouth was capable of forming words.

He shook his head against the door, “I shouldn’t…”

“Please!” she cried out too loudly, afraid that he would leave, “I need you!”

He turned then, staring at her in disbelief.

She closed the gap between them, “I need you _,_ ” she repeated, “Only you. _Please_. I’m aching and burn—” her words were swallowed by his mouth, harsh and demanding on her own.

There was no hesitance, no delay. She followed his lead and opened herself to him readily, inviting his tongue and his hands to explore her. He did, ravenously. It was an invasion – his tongue and each finger a soldier storming a fortress, yet this fortress offered no resistance. Its walls crumbled into dust, happy to be conquered.

A trance overtook her as she was singularly focused on his touch, everything else falling away like rocks tumbling over a cliff’s edge. Her shift and smallclothes were somehow gone, along with his boots, tunic, and breeches. Then something soft was beneath her – the bed, she assumed – but she barely felt the contact of the feather mattress in comparison to the contours of his body, seemingly carved of granite. He was nuzzling, licking, biting, and sniffing her like an animal. Her neck, her breasts, her belly, and her woman’s place. He was everywhere at once and she could feel herself literally dripping with want. Her hips ground down into the mattress, or up toward him; her body had taken the reins and left her mind as a mere observer.

Then his mouth was back to hers and his manhood was sliding against her… then pressing into her…

The pain was fleeting or was perhaps simply dulled in contrast to the tremendous need to have him inside her. The stretch of her walls was ecstasy like none other as he pushed in, slow but steady, until there was nowhere left to go.

_Home. This is home._

He began moving then, and if he was concerned for her virginal flesh, he didn’t show it. She was glad for it. She wanted all of him; she didn’t want him to hold back. Today she was a wolf, and wolves didn’t beg for mercy or gripe about minor discomforts.

And he didn’t hold back. He thrust into her so hard and so fast that the bedposts creaked in protest but that also was merely a distant, trivial matter. She now knew what it meant to writhe in pleasure. She was writhing and panting beneath him with no concern for what was proper or ladylike. _This_ was proper, and she was _his_ lady, and he _liked_ her this way.

The pleasure began building to a coda as he stroked inner bundles of nerves she never knew existed. She’d climaxed by her own touch many times, but this building storm felt different. Her inner muscles were tightening around him such that she could feel every push and every drag.

And then it happened. The magical thing that had eluded her all her young life. She peaked so hard she was momentarily blind and deaf and completely unaware of anything but the feel of him, thick and hot and heavy inside her. Her muscles pulsed around his shaft, which seemed to be swelling to an even larger size. His head dropped to the pillow, right beside her own, as he grunted in time with his thrusts. One, two, three, four more and then he too found his paradise. His body trembled and shivered against hers with a moan that sounded like that of a dying animal. _Come to think of it, perhaps **dying** is an apt description for what I just felt. _

She was even fuller now. His cock was swollen inside her and she could feel the heat of his seed, which was miraculous, considering how hot her own body felt.

“Sansa,” he whimpered in an almost frightened tone, and along with her name on his lips came another pulse inside of her. His feet were rubbing against the mattress as if trying to find purchase, and it was only then that she realized they were knotted. Maester Luwin had explained it in order to prepare her for the marriage bed. It was an evolutionary holdover in some alphas, the ability for their shafts to swell near the base to almost twice their normal girth. It prevented the male from decoupling, unless he was willing to violently tear himself away from his mate, causing pain for both of them.

“Sansa,” he said again, his voice strained and weak, but she knew it was from the overwhelming euphoria of the situation. He was laying on her but with most of his weight on his forearms. Every minute or so she felt a pulse go through him, like another, less intense peak. She felt it inside her and saw it in the tensing of his body before he’d relax again.

“Sansa,” he spoke breathlessly, “What’s happening?”

She smiled as she stroked his fine hair, “It’s alright, my love. We’re locked; knotted. Don’t fear it, just enjoy it.”

Her words seemed to soothe him as he tried thrusting again, only he was already buried to the hilt, her womb keeping him from going forward, his knot keeping him from pulling backward. Instead his movement was like rocking, and the new friction combined with the pressure his knot put on the nerves just inside her channel had Sansa crying out her own second peak. As she did so he sunk his teeth hard into her left shoulder, “You’re mine, little bird. _Mine_ ,” he growled against her skin.

For the first time since she’d met him, she _did_ think of him as a dog. A wild dog, not much different from a wolf, who managed to get his teeth on a tasty bone. It wasn’t a derogatory image as Joffrey no doubt intended the nickname to be. It was a feeling of satisfaction and pride that he would never let go of this particular bone – and that there were none in the realm that could challenge him over her. Not even his brother. Sandor was a true alpha, though he hid it by avoiding any political aspirations.

Sansa smiled, “Yours, Sandor. No one else’s,” she agreed without a trace of doubt.

Her words brought on another peak for him, and the cycle continued until he collapsed upon her. She welcomed him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he curled his body to lay his head against her breastbone, taking some of his weight off her torso. He had stopped rocking into her, but she felt another two pulses before he began to soften inside her.

When he finally sat back on his haunches and uncoupled from her, she felt an embarrassing amount of his seed gush out, but he only stared at her woman’s place in abject fascination. His subsequent grin was both predatory and proud, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile back despite the deep blush she felt.

He plopped beside her on the bed, his chest still heaving. When he pulled her against him, she nuzzled into the dark, coarse hair of his chest. The scent that had been torturing her for weeks was now lulling her to sleep, and she drifted into twilight without a care as he mumbled mostly incoherent words – _amazing… never felt… mine… little bird… little wolf… mine_


	9. Chapter 9

**Sansa**

Sansa woke to bright sun pouring through her window, though she could tell by the angle that it was not yet late morn – they’d dozed for a couple hours at most. She was still pressed against Sandor, his arms holding her safe and sound, but she knew he was awake.

“Sandor,” she whispered, “what are we going to do?”

He stroked her back lazily, “I don’t know, but I’m not letting you marry that cunt... So what if he’s a prince, he’s—”

She interrupted him, “I don’t want to marry him, either. He isn’t even a prince, you know. Nor is he an alpha.”

Sandor stilled, “What do you mean?”

“He isn’t Robert’s son. He’s Ser Jaime’s. But who will believe—”

Sandor sat up abruptly, pulling her chin to face him, “You mean Tommen should be heir?”

She shook her head, “All three of the children are Ser Jaime’s. I can smell it.”

“Smell it?”

“Yes. I can smell a person’s nature, and also their unique scent. Each person has one, like a signature, and there are similarities in the scents of family members. But I smell only Lannister blood in Joffrey and his siblings, no Baratheon.”

“I’ll be damned…” Sandor whispered, dropping his hand from her face. He seemed to readily believe her, for which she was both relieved and grateful.

“It makes sense now,” Sandor continued, “I always knew something was going on between Jaime and Cersei. Was never my place to intervene, though.”

Sansa nodded, not surprised that someone as observant as Sandor would have suspicions, “But what can I do with this information? King Robert is the only one who can get me out of this betrothal but accusing his wife of adultery and incest… it will be viewed as treason if the king doesn’t believe me. Even if he does, he may not want the truth to be known…”

Sandor snorted, “If he knew what I knew, he’d be glad to hear it.”

“What do you mean?”

Sandor hesitated a few moments before telling her that he had overhead Cersei and Jaime conversing privately. Cersei was planning to have King Robert killed at some point during the upcoming hunt. Jaime wanted no part of it but wasn’t going to stop her or reveal her plan to anyone.

Sansa felt instantly sick with fear for what that would mean for her and so many other people. Joffrey would be king – he’d have even more power to wield over his subjects, including his queen. “Sandor, we can’t let that happen! Robert is an old friend of my father; he may be our _only_ ally. But if he is gone—”

Loud knocking on the door made both of them jump. As they scrambled to find their discarded clothing the lock clicked, having been opened with a key from the other side. Four members of the Kingsguard filed into the room – Trant, Blount, Moore, and the Kingslayer.

Sansa pulled the bedsheet to cover herself while Sandor, who’d managed to pull on his breeches, moved to block her from their view.

“Well, well, well,” Trant smirked, “The dog’s got himself a pretty bitch, has he?”

Only Ser Jaime looked disappointed by the discovery; the other three men leered at her hungrily.

Blount chuckled, “Only she wasn’t his to take. But perhaps now that she’s been sullied by the dog the prince will let us have a go at her.”

Sandor snarled, “You’ll never fucking tou—”

“Enough!” Jaime yelled, directing it more at his fellow guards than at Sansa and Sandor. He turned to face them again, but his eyes would not meet theirs. His submissive nature was in conflict with the power his position and birth afforded him. “Hound, dress and come with us. Lady Sansa, we will wait in the corridor for you.”

Sandor turned to face her, and she could see he was ashamed to be unable to protect her. But he had neither armor nor sword. She had no idea how they’d been found out so quickly and knew she might never get an explanation. She didn’t want to cry in front of him, but she felt her lower lip trembling and knew it was inevitable.

He leaned down until his lips met her forehead, “The _truth_ , little bird, might be all that can set us free.”

She nodded her understanding even as tears welled in her eyes. Sandor finished dressing hastily and left without incident. Even the Hound couldn’t face four knights, one of whom was the Kingslayer, without a weapon, while also keeping Sansa out of their arms. Even if he could, the fracas would only alert more guards. They’d never get out of the building, much less the city.

…

Ser Boros and Ser Meryn made crude remarks and japes during their march of shame out of the family keep and to the throne room. They leered at Sansa, licking their lips like hungry dogs.

_“Smells like sex.”_

_“Surprised she can walk.”_

_“Will be a waste to see that pretty head roll.”_

Sansa had obediently followed, seeing no benefit to resisting the well-armed knights, but at some point, Ser Jaime put his hand around her upper arm. If anything, he seemed to do it to give her strength, or to show the ill-mannered knights that she was under her protection, but Sandor saw the motion and turned with a snarl, _“Don’t fucking touch her… I can kill you within seconds even without my blade… one of you at least,”_ he jutted his chin toward the other guards, extending his warning to them, and their smirks fell away along with Ser Jaime’s hand.

_They’re afraid of him, even unarmed, one against four, they know he can do damage._

If she weren’t so recently sated and likely on her way to the executioner’s block, she’d have found that realization quite arousing. His brother Gregor was a brute, but Sandor had both strength and finesse, she’d seen so herself during the tourney duels and in the training yard. No man could best her mate one on one, and she doubted there were any _three_ men in the realm who could best him, assuming he had his longsword – the one nearly as tall as Sansa.

But the pride and satisfaction that gave her was short-lived, as there would be no fair fights for them. Not now…

They were practically shoved into the throne room then dragged to stand before the King and Queen, who seemed to have been already apprised of the situation. Cersei wore a self-righteous sneer. Robert looked angry and disappointed, and Joffrey was standing off to one side, seething.

“Take both their heads, father!” Joffrey screeched, his face red with anger, “Our own Kingsguard witnessed their heinous deed. There is no need for a trial.”

Robert’s voice rang out, deep, calm, and authoritative, “This isn’t a trial; this is about hearing the truth. I wish to know why Clegane and Lady Sansa have betrayed their prince and their king!”

Sansa answered for both of them, knowing _calm and polite_ was needed – for now. “Your grace. Lord Clegane is a powerful, virile alpha in his prime. I am an omega in heat. We could not resist our urges. By the traditional laws, it is not a crime for an alpha to claim an omega who has not yet been claimed by another alpha.”

“You’ve been claimed by ME!” Joffrey shouted, spittle flying. The crowd of courtiers mumbled in agreement.

“I meant _claimed_ in the traditional sense… the physical sense. A spoken betrothal is not binding. Even if it were…” Sansa took a deep breath, “a beta has no right to claim an omega.”

More incoherent mumbles went through the crowd.

“Beta?!” Joffrey huffed, “I am an alpha. An alpha who will be _King_. You would choose this _dog_ over a king?!”

“I would choose a true alpha over a beta, no matter either’s nobility.”

Tyrion Lannister spoke over the murmurs of the crowd and whatever Cersei was starting to say, “You deny that Joffrey is an alpha, my lady?”

Sansa could kiss the little Lannister man. He was giving her an opportunity to state her case, without phrasing his question in a way that would reveal his bias against his own nephew.

“I do, my lord. I know for a fact that he is no alpha. I can smell it. I am gifted with a powerful sense of smell, that which all humans once possessed. Blindfold me if you wish and bring any man or woman before me. I will accurately tell you their nature ten times out of ten. As further proof, Prince Joffrey was in my company two days ago when I was in heat. He had _no_ reaction. Any other young alpha would have found my presence to be… overly stimulating.” She turned to face Robert, “You know this is true, your grace.”

Robert seemed to be contemplating whether to publicly agree with her or not, but it was Joffrey who spoke again, “This is absurd! This is a baseless accusation! I am an alpha!”

“Prove it,” Sandor growled through bared teeth, “If you’re so certain, then prove it. Challenge me to a duel if you want my mate.”

“She isn’t your mate!”

“By the old laws, she is. I’ve lain with her. I have more claim over her than you do.”

“My lord speaks true,” Sansa added, “A physical union between alpha and omega is a marriage in the eyes of the Gods, even more irrevocable than words exchanged in a sept or a godswood.”

Finally King Robert weighed in, “You speak of old laws, Lady Sansa. The Crownlands observes the _new_ laws. Taking another man’s wife, or even his betrothed, is a crime.”

Sansa took a deep breath, “With respect, your grace, the Crownlands are but one part of Westeros. Sandor Clegane is my husband in truth. The North, the Riverlands, and the Vale will agree, as would Dorne. If you try to separate what the Gods have united, it will be a serious sacrilege. If you execute me or my husband for an act which was witnessed and consecrated by the Gods, it will be unlawful.”

“Who cares?!” Joffrey shouted, “She is my betrothed and he has tainted her! Take his head! Take her head!”

Fear was bubbling up to the point that Sansa thought she might vomit, but she held her head high. She glanced at Sandor, who met her eyes and offered a nod. It was permission for her to continue their hastily formed strategy to reveal the truth and hope it would buy their freedom. She took a deep breath, “Would you risk starting a war with possibly four kingdoms, your grace, over the whims of a boy who is not even your son?”

The crowd fell silent. Cersei’s slender fingers clutched the sides of her throne. Robert sat forward, eyes narrowed, “What are you claiming, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa’s heart was nearly pounding out of her chest, “That Joffrey is not of your seed. Nor are Tommen and Myrcella.”

“Lies!” Cersei shouted. She was standing now, “She is lying to try to save herself from what she knows will be an execution! Take these traitors to the Black Cells to await their punishment!”

“No!” Robert boomed. He glared at Cersei until she sat back down, “Lady Sansa, on what do you base these accusations?”

“The same power of scent I described earlier. I can smell you in none of the three royal children. I only smell Cersei and… another.”

“Who?”

Sansa was trembling now, “I wish not to incriminate this person. I… I believe he has been seduced and manipulated by your wife. It is known that female alphas have strong powers over male betas.”

Robert glared down at her, “I _will_ hear this man’s name from your lips. But first, do you have any other evidence for your claim?”

“Aye,” Sandor spoke, his voice resonant in the throne room as everyone instinctively quieted to hear what he had to say, “I overheard Queen Cersei and this man when they thought they were alone. They spoke openly of their love. The Queen also admitted that she is conspiring to kill you, your grace.”

This time the crowd was clamoring. Dozens of voices spoke at once, blending into an indistinct cacophony. Only Joffrey was uncharacteristically quiet, probably shocked by the accusation. Or perhaps he had just enough brains to realize how badly this could go for him.

“Lies!” Cersei’s voice was now laced with panic, “My love, you must not believe the lies of these traitors! I am your wife! Your queen! The mother of—”

“Enough!” Robert’s voice boomed, again silencing the entire hall, “We will continue these discussions in my solar. Escort the accused there at once,” Robert nodded at Ser Jaime, who was white as a sheet.

Once in the king’s solar, it was a much smaller affair. The King and Queen were there, along with Tywin Lannister and two members of the Kingsguard – Ser Barristan and Ser Mandon. Jaime and Joffrey were conspicuously absent, as was Tyrion. It seemed Robert didn’t wish to surround himself with lions in such close quarters. Sansa took it as a good sign that he might actually believe her and Sandor’s claims.

“Continue, Hound,” Robert commanded.

Sandor took a deep breath, “The Queen plans to have you poisoned during your hunt.”

Cersei’s eyes widened, “He’s lying—”

Robert ignored her, “That implies she has an accomplice, as obviously the queen will not be joining us.”

“Aye. Lancel Lannister.”

Sansa was quick to intercede, “Your grace, I have met Lord Lancel. He is another beta, easily manipulated by an alpha female. I do not know the details of Queen Cersei’s plans, but I would ask you to hear his side of the story before passing judgment.” Sansa’s words were not entirely selfless; Lancel was Tywin’s nephew. She might already be costing the man his daughter and grandchildren; if she could spare his nephew it might earn her some of the old lion’s good graces. The man himself was oddly quiet throughout the entire proceedings, which left Sansa wondering how much of this he already knew.

Lancel Lannister was summoned, and it took less than five minutes of questioning for the young man to be a blubbering puddle of tears. He admitted that Cersei seduced him and convinced him to poison Robert’s wine so he would fall. With Robert’s weight and the summer heat, his death would be blamed on the wine and physical exertion; no foul play would be suspected – or so Cersei had assured him.

Cersei cried and screamed her protests, but no one – not even her own father – spoke in her defense. Eventually she was escorted out.

Robert shook his head and addressed Sansa and Sandor, “Why did you not come to me with this information sooner?”

Sandor shrugged, “I’m but a guard. A second son of a minor house. I didn’t think you’d believe my word over your wife’s.”

Sansa nodded, “I, too, feared my word would not be trusted. With all due respect, your grace, you knew your son – I mean Joffrey – was no alpha, and yet you matched him to me anyway... Your- Joffrey has been cruel to me nearly since my arrival in the capital. I feared for my safety, with no one here I could count as a friend or protector. Until…” she turned to face Sandor, “until today… I did not wish to betray anyone, your grace. But Sandor Clegane is my bonded mate. I would sooner face the executioner’s block than I would face a life without him.”

Robert snorted, “Does your _mate_ feel the same way?”

Sandor faced Sansa, his eyes earnest and fearless, “He does.”

“King Robert,” Sansa cried, “I understand I have brought public shame upon you, and I’m truly sorry it was so. It was never my intent.”

“And?”

Her brows furrowed, “Your grace?”

“That’s it? No pleading for mercy?”

Sansa shook her head, “No, your grace. I have faith that the Gods brought me to Sandor for a reason. I must also have faith that should we meet our end at the hands of the King’s Justice, that must also be our fate.”

The king’s expression softened and hardened again before Sansa’s eyes, “I’m glad you have your faith, Lady Sansa, and your belief in the Gods. It will serve you well for what is to come.” He nodded at his guards, “Lady Sansa is to be confined to her chambers and guarded day and night. The Hound is to be imprisoned at once in the Black Cells.”

Sansa felt her momentary hopefulness fracture. She wondered if perhaps begging and pleading would have been the right approach. Or perhaps threatening retribution from her father if Sansa and Sandor were so much as detained.

She wanted to throw herself on the ground and sob, but seeing how Sandor accepted his fate so bravely, she knew she could not shame herself… not while her valiant and solemn husband was here to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun...


	10. Chapter 10

**Sansa**

Four days passed while Sansa was confined to her chambers. No one brought her any news. Once she was brought a hot bath and, three times each day, she was brought a meal. She ate only enough to keep her strength up, knowing she would need it at some point in the near future. She hated that they brought her meals befitting a highborn guest of the Crown when in reality she was now a prisoner. She hoped that Sandor was being treated well but couldn’t believe he was being _fed_ well. Stale bread and thin soup were probably brought to him, and perhaps only once each day.

It was difficult not to feel sorry for herself, but with each passing day she was more confident that they wouldn’t execute her. Robert was a childhood friend of her father – the father who had helped Robert claim the throne he now held. Moreover, Sansa’s “crime” of adultery was not punishable by death. Perhaps if she’d been married to Joffrey at the time of her _indiscretion_ it would be, but not under the circumstances.

It was much more difficult not to worry about Sandor, and so she didn’t bother trying. He was in the cold, dark dungeons of King’s Landing. He didn’t have a powerful father behind him. King Robert might decide to execute Sandor as an example, even if he chose to set Sansa free. Her father would never go to war for Sandor Clegane, even if Sansa explained that he was her bonded mate.

It was on the fifth day that guards led her to Lord Tywin’s chambers. The old lion offered her refreshments, which she declined. Then she sat across from his large wooden desk, wondering in silence why she’d been brought here instead of before the king.

After agonizing minutes of silent staring the door opened and Sandor was led in, his wrists and ankles chained. He still wore the clothes she’d last seen him in – brown breeches and the tan tunic which was now dark grayish brown from the dirt he’d been sleeping in.

“Sandor!” she gasped as she stood, but a guard jerked him to sit in a chair a few feet away from hers. She sat back down meekly, hoping obedience would be rewarded.

The guards left them alone with Lord Tywin, who laced his fingers as he seemed to be pondering his word choice, “I assume neither of you has been informed of the recent developments?”

They shook their heads in tandem.

Tywin nodded, “The royal marriage has been annulled. Lady Olenna Tyrell will soon travel to the capital to arrange the betrothal of her daughter, Lady Margaery, to King Robert. Cersei’s children have been stripped of the Baratheon name.”

When he didn’t continue Sansa quietly asked, “What will become of them, Lord Lannister?”

The man’s stoic face showed none of the despair he must be feeling as he answered, “Cersei will be executed for her crimes of adultery, treason, and conspiracy to commit regicide. Myrcella and Tommen will be allowed to wear the Lannister name and to live at Casterly Rock. King Robert will have sole discretion over their future marriages, if any. Joffrey, for knowingly passing himself off as an alpha, and for other crimes which have recently come to light, has been sentence to lifetime servitude at the Wall, as has Lancel – who was only extended this mercy because of his full confession.”

“Has anyone else been… _affected_?” Sansa didn’t know if Ser Jaime’s role as Cersei’s lover had become known since she’d been confined to her room. No one came to question her on the subject, even though the king had said he would hear the name from her lips... Perhaps Lancel knew and had confessed it. Or perhaps Ser Jaime himself confessed it in hopes his cooperation could earn leniency for Cersei or their children.

Tywin eyed her so intensely she regretted her question, but eventually he took a deep breath and responded, “Jaime is no longer a _ser._ He has been dismissed from the Kingsguard and stripped of his knighthood but will be allowed to live at Casterly Rock and may remain my heir.”

Sansa nodded. Apparently, she wouldn’t get all the details, “I am sorry to hear about Lady Cersei and Joffrey, my lord, though it sounds as if King Robert has been merciful.”

Tywin snorted, “Due in no small part to _my_ influence and petitioning on behalf of my family. Robert Baratheon is no fool; he doesn’t wish to make an enemy of the Warden of the West.”

“And the North?” Sandor rasped, “Does he _wish_ to make an enemy of the Warden of the North?”

Tywin glared at Sandor, “He does not. His plan was to return Lady Sansa to her family and to execute you, Clegane, for the crimes of rape and treason.”

“Sandor didn’t—”

Tywin held his hand up to silence her.

“Since your betrothed was Joffrey, and Joffrey was no prince, there could be no treason. As for the _other_ crime, I convinced the king that Lady Sansa is correct – many still keep to the old laws and would not agree with the king’s sentence. Though few would challenge the king publicly for the sake of _the Hound_ , I convinced him it would weaken his authority and his respect in the eyes of those kingdoms who follow the old laws without question.”

Sansa shook her head in confusion, “Why, my lord? Why would you petition the king on our behalf?”

Tywin sneered, “I counseled my king honestly, as is my duty as _Hand_ – a position I accepted the day before you were arrested.”

“But… we spoke out against your family…”

“Indeed, you spoke out against my _daughter_. But you also tried to protect my son and my nephew. Cersei cannot carry out my legacy, but Jaime can.”

Sandor snorted, “You never wanted him in the _Kingsguard,_ you wanted him at the Rock. Guess you finally got your wish.”

Tywin’s eyes widened briefly before he regained his cold composure.

Sansa shook her head again, still unable to believe what she was being said. Sandor was better able to focus on the truly important matter, “Lord Lannister, if we are not to be executed, what is to become of us?”

Tywin shrugged, “I suppose that’s your decision. To validate King Robert’s verdict that you are _not_ guilty of rape, you must continue to live as man and wife under the eyes of the Gods. Beyond that is your prerogative.”

Sansa and Sandor turned to look at each other for the first time since Sandor had entered. He looked just as shocked as she felt.

Tywin sighed as if frustrated by their confusion, “I’d rather not lose one of my most loyal bannermen, even if his house is a humble one, but—”

“ _Bannerman_? Gregor is your vassal, and he—”

“Ser Gregor is not an alpha. Did you forget that many in the Westerlands still keep to the old laws of inheritance? Clegane Keep is yours, by law, if you want it. Or, as I was about to say, I’m sure Winterfell would appreciate having a soldier of your caliber.”

Sandor shifted, “Gregor will not agree to this—”

Tywin scoffed, “It is not up to him. And Ser Gregor _will_ obey his liege lord or face the consequences. Besides, when was the last time he stepped foot within the walls of his own castle, or did anything to rule over his lands? Do you think I don’t know that Clegane Keep is rotting into ruin? It may be small, but its lands are fertile and could be generating good profit – _taxable_ profit – under the right leadership.”

“But—” Sandor began.

“But nothing. The choice is yours to make. Sail to Essos, for all I care,” Tywin flicked a hand, “Just remember the men you owe your loyalty to… _all_ of them,” he punctuated his statement with an arched brow.

Tywin called in a guard to unchain Sandor. The old lion’s parting words were a warning, issued while his eyes were scanning the document on the desk before him, “I wouldn’t linger in this city longer than you must.”

Though the guards were ushering them out, Sansa wasn’t sure she’d ever get another chance to show her appreciation. She returned to stand in front of Tywin’s desk, leaning slightly so she could speak in a low voice, “I know there is more you’re not saying… some _other_ reason why you are helping us. I don’t need to know. But I want you to know that you have my gratitude, and I will make sure my father knows it.” She curtsied deeply. He was owed that and more respect.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed before he gave her a curt nod. It was the most she’d get from the man, but she knew there was an understanding between them. And perhaps a mutual respect.

…

They walked together to her chambers, quiet and wary, as if they both expected to be dragged before the king – for Lord Tywin’s words to have been a jape, or for King Robert to decide he disagreed with the old lion, after all.

But they entered her room unmolested. Only then did they embrace. Sandor stunk from spending days on a dirt floor with no way to wash but Sansa didn’t care. She was in his arms, and soon they’d be free of this place. They would start their life together as husband and wife.

When they finally separated Sansa peered into his eyes, “Do you wish to go to Clegane Keep, or to Winterfell, or somewhere else?”

His eyes widened, “I’d think you’d want to return to your family.”

“I’ve always known someday I would leave my home and family to live at my husband’s keep. I am happy to go wherever you wish, husband.”

He shook his head, “That husband bit… it wasn’t just for the king’s sake? You actually feel that way?”

She backed up, “Of course. I feel the bond with you, Sandor. I’ve been around other alphas. I’ve felt the carnal lust, but what I feel for you is so much stronger.”

“Because you were in heat,” he frowned.

“No, my love,” she stroked his burned cheek even as he tried to pull away, “I felt it the first moment I saw you. Or, more precisely, the moment I first smelled you. Maester Luwin said I would know my bonded mate when I smelled him, and he was right.”

Sandor shook his head again, “I know I said you’re mine, little bird, but that was in the throes of… of pleasure. I don’t expect you to bind yourself to me for life.”

Sansa backed away, “You don’t feel the pull? You don’t feel for me what I feel for you?”

Sandor sat on the chair heavily, “I feel it, aye. Don’t know what the fuck it is, though. Like I can’t get you out of my head. Like you’ve taken up residence under my skin and in my chest and even behind my fucking eyeballs.”

Sansa smiled at his crude way yet accurate way of describing such a beautiful thing, “That is the bond, my love. I will teach you all you wish to know, from what I myself was taught by a maester.”

“Sansa,” he rubbed his brow, “You’re the daughter of the Warden of the North. You’re a highborn, beautiful omega. You were born to be a queen… Just because it didn’t work out with Joffrey doesn’t mean you can’t find another. Someone worthy of you.”

Sansa was taken aback, “Who could be more worthy than the man the Gods have created just for me?!”

“I don’t believe all that _Gods_ nonsense. The Gods have never done me any favors, believe me girl. Unless mere survival is a favor, which in my opinion, _it’s not_.”

She frowned at his admission, “Perhaps giving me to you is their favor, have you considered that? Or do you consider this attraction between us a curse, now? Am I a burden to you?”

His lips curled, “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I do not. Why do you fight this? You are the alpha, you may take me or leave me at your whim, yet you seem to be agonized by the decision.”

“I want you, girl, you know I do. But I can’t give you the life you were born to have. Lord Tywin was generous in calling Clegane Keep a _castle_.”

“He also says it can be profitable. Does your family home not deserve to have a strong lord to oversee it? To protect it?”

“I’m not a lord.”

Sansa sighed, “Society and tradition say otherwise. Besides, it is my duty to help you run the household. We can divide the responsibilities to suit our respective strengths. I will serve you and your household however I can.”

He snorted, “So that’s what you want? To be _Lady Clegane_ of _Clegane Keep_?”

“I want what you want. If you’d prefer to go to Winterfell or—”

He stood up angrily, “Don’t. Don’t do that. I don’t want some delicate wife with no mind of her own. Tell me your preference.”

Sansa considered the options for the first time, “While it’s tempting to return to my family, they will always be there. It is more time-sensitive to install you as Lord of Clegane Keep and begin tending to the buildings and lands. Once everything is running smoothly, and a capable castellan is in our employ, we can plan a visit to Winterfell, if it would please you.”

“More time-sensitive, aye, and more _irrevocable_. Once you become Lady Clegane there is no turning back. But if we go to Winterfell and you decide you don’t want me, we can have our marriage quietly annulled.”

Sansa shook her head, “I’ve told you I want you. And my mind will not change. Please, my lord, make your decision based on what _you_ desire.”

Sandor rolled his eyes and minutes passed without an answer. When it finally came, Sansa was prepared for another rebuttal but instead Sandor sighed, “I want you. As my wife. As my lady. But I won’t call you ‘my lady’ and I don’t want you calling me ‘my lord’, either. But I suppose… I suppose it would be nice to see the keep my grandfather earned restored. Or perhaps even improved.”

Sansa smiled and stood on tiptoes to kiss his lips, “Then to Clegane Keep we shall go. On the morrow?”

Sandor nodded, “Aye, on the morrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part I complete!! 
> 
> So to address what may seem like OOC Tywin Lannister...   
> Once Lancel sang, and probably before then, Cersei was already fucked and Tywin knew it. He knew Joffrey and Tommen would never carry on his legacy. Tywin's an adaptable creature, he knew at that point the best he could do was save his eldest son. And we all know that Sandor's words were true - Tywin never wanted Jaime to waste his life as a kingsguard. I imagine Tywin talking to Robert - slyly hinting that executing Jaime would lose him Tywin's support and loyalty, and suggesting that the worst punishment a man like Jaime could suffer would be having his knighthood and KG position stripped away. By the time Tywin was done, Robert probably thought he was subjecting Jaime to the cruelest form of punishment. And for Jaime, losing Cersei, his knighthood, his "children"... it probably was. 
> 
> BUT for Tywin, it's a WIN. He gets his golden heir, and while he no longer has a family member on the throne, he has gained a strong ally in the North and is also able to influence the realm as Robert's Hand. 
> 
> Is Robert naming him Hand unlikely? I don't really think so. After Jon Arryn died, if Ned Stark didn't take the position, who else would Robert trust? His father-in-law, who helped him take the throne? Robert may have always mistrusted the Lannisters, but while Cersei was his wife he knew Tywin wouldn't move against him. Then after Cersei's crimes were revealed, stripping Tywin of the Hand position would be a public humiliation of the Great Lion... One doesn't poke lions and expect to live. Not when lions control the richest kingdom and live in an impenetrable fortress.
> 
> But most importantly, I wanted this to be a short-ish read focused on the attraction between Sansa and Sandor, so if things wrapped up a little too nicely? Oh well...


End file.
